


South Downs

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Human, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Scottish Crowley (Good Omens), Sexuality Crisis, Show Business, the Them are aged up in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Blackballed from the industry ten years ago, Anthony Crowley jumps at the chance to star in a new Regency romance miniseries with well-known gay actor Aziraphale Fell in the hopes that it will help him restart his career.The trouble is, Crowley has played all sorts of characters and for the life of him, he can't figure out why he's struggling to play the romantic lead opposite a man.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 812
Kudos: 867
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh man this idea hit me at 1 AM and is mostly the frankenstein's monster of me watching Bridgerton and wanting to write a fic exploring sexuality. I think it will be pretty light and fun despite that big internalized homophobia tag.
> 
> CW for some internalized homophobia of the "being queer is fine, its totally fine, i said its fine, why wouldn't it fine?" variety, references to past sexual misconduct (not involving MCs)

Crowley rubbed uselessly at his right eye to stop the twinging pain starting behind it. But rubbing at it wouldn’t help him figure out if he should pay his electric bill or the internet nor would it stop the migraine building behind his eyes. Wistfully, he thought back to the days of millions of pounds in the bank and promises of big budget scripts on the horizon. But he’d fucked that right up by trying to be a good bloody person.

Crowley hadn’t been able to stand around and watch while sleazy men put their hands up people’s skirts and threatened people’s jobs for sexual favors. Not for millions, not for fame, not for any of it. But apparently, bringing that awful behavior to light meant a giant stain on his resume. None of the big names would work with him and he was tossed out on his arse to fend for himself.

No use dwelling. He decided electric was more important than internet for now and that maybe looking at cheaper flats would be the next order of business. He would be fine. He just wouldn’t be fine for very long. He needed to look at the budget spreadsheet again.

His email blipped in the corner of his laptop and he automatically clicked it open, confused by the title of the message.

**SCRIPT!!!!!**

It was from his agent. Who he hadn’t heard from in weeks. Despite emailing them on multiple occasions.

He read the summary and his stomach dropped. There was no way this was for him. It had to be a mistake. He didn’t get miniseries scripts. He got scripts for TV guest spots and made-for-TV movies. This was a _real_ script. Not the sort of script people sent to Anthony Crowley.

Fishing out his mobile, he dialed Beez.

“Did you get the email?” they snapped, eschewing a greeting in favor of getting to the point. Good old Beez.

“What is this?” Crowley asked, dumping his laptop on the coffee table and lurching to standing. “A period romance? You can’t be serious.”

“The director asked for you.”

“Me? They want me to come in and read?”

“No. They asked for you. The part is yours if you want. The male lead. Well, one of them. The other’s some bloke who's in these sorts of things all the time. Weird name The details are in the email.”

“Who’s the leading lady?”

Beez was silent for a moment. “There is no leading lady. It’s a gay thing, Crowley. I just said that.”

“Oh.”

“Is that a problem?” Beez said, going prickly. Crowley knew they were queer and he was fine that. He’d known they were queer when he’d started working with them so he was hardly homophobic. He was just surprised.

“No, of course not.”

It wasn’t a problem. Crowley was going to to take the fucking work. He needed work. He didn’t exactly relish the idea of prancing around in a top hat and tight pants but he would do it. He would kiss a thousand blokes if it meant he made some _money_. He just didn’t realize it was that sort of gig.

“Read the script,” Beez said. “And take the bloody part. You’ll not get another offer like this in a million fucking years.”

“Right.”

“And stop shaving. They want you to have sideburns.”

Beez hung up and Crowley swore. He was going to look like a twat.

But a twat with work.

He pulled his laptop back into his lap as he sank back onto the couch and actually read the email. A showrunner new to the business. Adam Young. Set to direct. Six episodes. The costar was someone by the name of Aziraphale Fell. The name tickled something at the back of Crowley's mind. He pulled up IMDB and did a quick search.

Aziraphale Fell. A blond, nondescript sort of man. His nose was interesting and his teeth were bloody perfect, Crowley noted with a bit of envy. His eyes scrunched when he smiled, revealing deep crows feet. Forty-seven. About Crowley’s age.

Crowley scrolled through his credits and the casting choice immediately made sense. It was abundantly clear that this Aziraphale fellow was the king of period dramas. He’d never met a cravat he didn’t like. Regency, Victorian, Edwardian. There were Wilde adaptations, Austen, Shaw, even a Bronte. Crowley would bet if he went to his wikipedia page, Fell would have stage credits a mile long.

This was a good thing. This meant that Fell had a built in audience for this sort of show. People who always tuned in to watch him spout whatever drivel was written for him. So this was a vehicle for Fell and Crowley was just along for the ride. Crowley was fine with that.

He downloaded the script of the first episode and opened it to the title page.

_South Downs: Episode 1_

* * *

"Anthony Crowley? Isn't that the fellow who puked on Olivia Coleman's shoes at the BAFTA after party?"

"Yeah. He was supposed to be in that big Spielberg flick before they pulled the plug. What was it? Ten years ago?" Newt added.

“Oh yes, that too,” Aziraphale agreed, pointing at Newt across the table littered with the headshots of his future castmates. “Anathema, there were rumors of sexual misconduct.”

“I have it on very good authority those rumors started because _he_ was trying to bring to light the misconduct of the producer he was working with on a different project,” Anathema said, pointing at the headshot again with a bit more vehemence than necessary. “And then the producer was arrested for said misconduct five years later?”

Aziraphale frowned at the picture of the man with fire red hair. He was handsome. In his mid-forties. They would certainly look quite the pair. Perhaps that was what Adam was going for. An odd couple.

"You know this project is important to me, Anathema, I'd hate to have someone like him jeopardizing it."

"Adam wants him for the role," she said with a shrug. "He's stuck on it. You know he wouldn’t choose just anyone."

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at his future love interest. He supposed he didn't have a choice.

“What else has he been in?”

Anathema grimaced and snatched the photo. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Adam has already offered him the role. Let’s talk about Hadley’s daughter. There were a handful of newcomers up for that role—”

“He was in those spy films,” Newt offered.

“Spy films?”

Newt had already pulled out his phone and handed it to Aziraphale. His eyebrows went up. “ _Agent Cobra_?”

He scrolled through the IMDB page and tried to remind himself that an actor’s oeuvre didn’t necessarily reflect their skill as a performer. However, Mr. Crowley’s record was…

“Three of these Cobra films and two insipid comedies and what looks like a truly impressive list of guest spots on Scottish soap operas. Please, Anathema, tell me what Adam is thinking?”

Anathema fixed him with a look over her spectacles. One of her killer looks that would have quelled men who were not forty-seven and had dealt with homophobic media and cutthroat industry professionals their entire lives.

“First, the _Agent Cobra_ trilogy is not as bad as it sounds. You should watch the first one at least. The comedies and soap operas...look, sometimes you have to earn a paycheck. You did _Night of the Iguana_.”

Aziraphale held up a hand and closed his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Yes. Fine. I will give this young man a chance but if there is even so much as a hint of bad behavior, well, I will remind you I used to fence.”

Anathema snorted. “He’s the same age as you. And a good actor”

Aziraphale looked at the silent trailer that had started autoplaying on Newt’s phone where what looked to be an Anthony Crowley in his twenties was running from an explosion with a simultaneously very silly and far too serious expression on his face. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“Now,” Anathema said, gathering a few more papers. “Back to Mr. Hadley’s daughter.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i've left the chapter count a question mark because I don't know what the breakdown of chapters is but I do think this will shake out around 30k to 45k just so you have a goalpost for pacing.
> 
> CW for this chapter: Crowley has some homophobic thoughts but does catch himself out in them. As we say, growth is possible.
> 
> Also, me? projecting migraines onto Crowley? It's more likely than you think. (actually they wont be a recurring theme but I wanted a sunglasses reason so here you are).
> 
> Shout out to mortifyingideal for some tweet making help and to Fyre for scot-picking for a few Crowley bits
> 
> Enjoy and thank you for all your support on the last chapter!

The script was good. Remarkable actually. Or maybe Crowley was so used to the terrible soaps and TV spots that he had no frame of reference, but he didn’t think so. He was hooked by the second page. Crowley devoured the first episode and immediately replied to Beez to get the contract. They sent back an already drawn up document. They’d probably had it at the ready, knowing exactly how Crowley would reply. Smug little shite.

Crowley read over the contract too and had to lie down on the sofa once he got to the bit about pay. He hadn’t been made offers like this for anything since his blockbuster days over fifteen years ago. Almost twenty now. It wasn’t nearly as much as his old paychecks, but the stress of the budget spreadsheet was already lifting. He could get a cat. He’d always wanted a cat. He would name it Beans and buy feather toys for it and he wouldn’t yell at his ficus so much because he’d have a cat to talk to instead. He wouldn’t yewll at the cat of course. Not unless they deserved it.

Six episodes. No more. But if Crowley behaved himself, he could get contacts for other jobs. Jobs not on shitty Scottish soaps, but proper jobs. Maybe Hollywood jobs. His star wasn’t burnt out yet.

He signed the contract and went back to the script. He had five more episodes to read. He wouldn’t lie. He was keen to know what this Hadley fellow was all about and why Adam Young seemed to think he was perfect for the part.

It took him three days to get through all the scripts, stopping to order takeaway (he could afford it now!) and shower, and by the end of it, he was still puzzled. It wasn’t that he couldn’t _play_ Hadley, but he didn’t see whatever connection had Adam Young ringing up Anthony Crowley’s agent and cherry-picking a forgotten action star for the role. It seemed a regular Regency romance, if a gay one. Which was all well and good.

Then Crowley made a mistake. 

Crowley went on Twitter. 

He was curious about the buzz surrounding the miniseries. The first table read was scheduled a month out and Crowley wanted to _know_ things. A horrible fault of his, wanting to know things. He had nothing else to do besides clean his flat and be _stressed_ so he went on Twitter when he shouldn’t have.

The first thing he found out was that Aziraphale Fell had a capital F Following. A die-hard subset of fans that included not only middle-aged mums who had seen every Jane Austen adaptation the fellow was in, but also LGBTQ kids who apparently looked up to him something fierce. Fell supported a variety of LGBTQ charities and spoke out for queer causes. He marched at bloody Pride.

Crowley supposed that was good for him. The LGBTQ lot needed people to look up to. Difficult thing to be in the world and all.

What it meant for Crowley was there was a rabid group of teenagers sharing a ten second video of him puking on Olivia Coleman’s shoes on loop and saying mean things about his appearance.

The entire country had assumed he was a lush and a pervert because of that shoe thing, but it was _food_ _poisoning_. If this was going around again, the cast was going to hate him before he even started.

Then he started down the rabbit hole of the obsessed mums who were even meaner than the gay teenagers. 

Crowley dropped his phone onto his chest and stared at the ceiling. Who the fuck indeed.

* * *

The table read was a month before principal photography was scheduled to begin in Bristol. While the whole thing was set in the South Downs and primarily in Brighton, the on-location work wouldn’t be for a few months. That was good for Crowley. A bit of time to get to know everyone. To prove he _wasn’t_ a pervert and a lush. He was just Anthony Crowley from Glasgow and he very much wanted everyone to like him.

The hotel he booked into was nice enough but there was a strong scent of cleaner in his room. Like it was doused in Spring Breeze Lysol. He took a shower and ran the fan, but the perfumed scent didn’t dissipate, cloying and pricking at his nose. A heavy pressure began to build behind his right eye as he set out his clothes for the next day. He’d even curated his bloody outfit to not be too intimidating. He’d chosen a jumper. A grey jumper. Because people said jumpers were approachable even though he didn’t like wearing jumpers. 

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes to stave off the oncoming migraine. He would just go to bed early and it would be fine. He would wake up the next day fresh as a daisy.

He woke up the next day feeling like shite.

Coffee didn’t solve the issue even as he guzzled what felt like two liters of the terrible stuff straight from the in-room machine and got a second cup from the coffee shop on the walk to the studio. The sunglasses he had shoved on his face did little to stop the throbbing in his head, but when did they ever. At this point, they were basically a placebo. 

He pushed into the studio building and grumbled his way through getting directions to the table read. With a lingering migraine, words were a bit of a stew, but he managed his way to the third floor and into a conference room where the lights were definitely too bright. At least it didn’t smell like industrial cleaner.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him and Crowley slumped towards the u-shaped table, hoping no one would notice him. An impossibility since he was early and there were so few people there. 

“You must be Anthony!”

Crowley grimaced and turned towards the loud voice, only to see an insufferably bright man holding out his hand to shake. Crowley set down his coffee and gingerly greeted him. This was going to be the whole day, wasn’t it? People shaking hands and being chipper. 

Crowley was dead certain he should know who he was talking to, but critical thought was akin to digging out of a pit and all he could do was limply shake the man’s hand. He looked familiar, light blond hair that stuck up in wayward tufts. Like it would curl riotously if it were just an inch or two longer. 

He was also the very definition of _dadbod_. Soft under a fawn, velvety-looking waistcoat and an honest-to-god tartan bow tie nestled in the collar of a shirt so light blue it was almost white. He looked unbearably comfortable. Like a couch. More comfortable than Crowley’s couch which at this point had sat in his apartment for over ten years (there had to be a rule for how often one replaced couches and Crowley was on the outside of the time limit).

“Give me a minute here,” Crowley said as he retracted his hand and leaned against the back of the chair. He scrubbed at his forehead to dull the ache that he was hoping was starting to retreat. This was the way of things when he got these sort of headaches. They weren’t exactly _common_ for him, but they certainly ruined his day when they happened.

“Are you _hung over_?” the man said, demeanor changing, affable smile shifting into something hard and accusatory.

“Excuse me, I’ve got a bloody migraine and I’m trying to exist,” Crowley snapped. He reminded himself of the number of zeros in the paycheck he was about to get, the lifting of the stress on the budget spreadsheet, the future of Beans the cat. He could do it.

“Oh...I thought, well, with your history, but I shouldn’t have assumed,” the man said, blinking rapidly. He looked genuinely contrite, but Crowley’s foul mood fire was burning.

“My _history_?”

“You did puke on Olivia Coleman’s shoes—”

“It was food poisoning! You’d think, BAFTA after party and whatnot, they’d no' be tight as a dog's arse when it came to the catering. Christ, I cannae look at shrimp anymore without it giving me the boak. She laughed it off and all, but no one ever shows that video! And I paid for the bloody shoes just so you know!”

The man made a short sound of surprise and Crowley bared his teeth in response. Not a smile. A fuck right off sort of thing.

"A misunderstanding then," the man said politely, inclining his head like he was some old-fashioned gentleman. "I'm Aziraphale Fell. I'll be playing—"

"William Cole," Crowley said. He was a dolt. Aziraphale. This was him. Co-star. And he'd just read him the riot act within five minutes of meeting him. To be fair, Aziraphale had been rude first.

"Quite right," Aziraphale said with a half-hearted smile. "If you're feeling unwell, why don't you take a seat until the others arrive?"

That had been Crowley’s plan all along, but instead of pointing that out, he slipped into the uncomfortable chair and slouched into as comfortable a position as the horrible plastic would allow. The lights suddenly flickered and dimmed and he turned towards the door to see Aziraphale shutting off one of the switches and talking to a woman he didn’t recognize. Aziraphale pointed at Crowley and made some inscrutable hand-wringing gestures that Crowley didn’t try to follow. He was just glad the lights were no longer at full.

More of the cast began to arrive. A few people Crowley recognized from the paperwork Beez had sent. Most of the actors were fresh faces, young, new to the scene which Crowley had hoped meant they wouldn’t know who he was. He was quickly disabused of that notion when they all cast him the same wary looks.

Aziraphale slid into the chair next to him and placed a white packet on the table alongside a water bottle. Crowley looked down at it.

“Ibuprofen,” Aziraphale said. “For the headache. It can’t be pleasant, being around all these people and feeling that way. I sent my PA to get some.”

“Oh.”

Crowley stared at the little white packet and then chanced a look at his new co-star. In profile, it was his nose that was the most striking. The small divot in the slope, the way it tipped up at the end. Aziraphale too had been forced to stop shaving apparently and his beard was a strawberry blond, a bit patchy about the neck. It made him look friendly.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. He ripped open the package carefully. “And for the lights.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I think we ought to look out for each other, don’t you?”

Before Crowley could respond, a young man with a mop of gold curls stood up at the end of the conference table and clapped his hands. He may as well have slapped a gong for all it rang in Crowley’s ears. He downed the ibuprofen and sat up.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Adam Young.”

“Oh my god, he’s a baby,” Crowley said under his breath. The whelp was barely over twenty.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“I’ll be directing, and I thought we could start by going around the table, have everyone say their name and who they’ll be playing. I know we have our little cards.” He stopped and held up the card stock name plate in front of his seat. “But I think that’s a bit more personal and I like personal. Then we can get started.”

He gestured to the girl at his left. She had tightly curled black hair and tawny skin and looked to be about Adam’s age. Her name card said _Pippin Moonchild_. 

“I know what my name card says but call me Pepper. I’m playing Abigail Hadley,” she said, and she tossed a sharp glance in Crowley’s direction. That was his character’s daughter sorted.

Next was a pale fellow with long hair who said his name was Warlock of all things who would be playing Cole’s son, Richard. It went on until Crowley was forced to introduce himself. 

He sat up, grateful for the ibuprofen which had reduced the throb to a low ache. “I’m Anthony Crowley but you can call me Crowley. I’ll be John Hadley.”

A small murmur passed down the table.

“You know, I was a big fan of Agent Cobra when I was a kid,” Adam said. Perhaps an attempt to dispel the whispers.

All it did was make Crowley want to groan. He was old. Stick him in a museum and call him a fossil. _When I was a kid_. 

“Glad to hear it,” he said politely.

“This will be different as I’m sure you know.”

“No explosions,” Crowley joked. It seemed the thing to do instead of moaning about his age.

“Or guns,” Pepper added.

Crowley nodded in acknowledgment.

“Don’t think there were any gay love scenes in Agent Cobra,” a young man who’d introduced himself as Wensleydale quipped in between bites of a powdered donut.

“You didn’t see the first draft of _Venom Strike_.”

Aziraphale snorted beside him, drawing Crowley’s attention and they shared a small smile. 

“Apologies,” Aziraphale said. “But _Venom Strike_?”

“Second Agent Cobra film,” Crowley said, hardly surprised Aziraphale hadn’t seen it. Aziraphale probably watched movies made specifically to win awards. Movies that had things like _mise en scene_ and metanarratives. 

“Sounds intellectual.”

“I will inform you that it was a new take on the hero’s journey.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Aziraphale,” Adam said, looking amused as he interrupted their back and forth. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Mouth twisting wryly as he composed himself, Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie. “Yes. I’m Aziraphale Fell. I believe I’ve met most of you at some reading or another, but I’ll be playing William Cole and I’m very much looking forward to working with all of you.”

Aziraphale shot him another look, a little half-smile, as if they were friends already before introductions moved on. The cast was small, and they settled into a rhythm in the reading easily. Crowley’s part didn’t come in til late in the episode, so he sat and listened to the writing come to life. Aziraphale was as good as he had thought he’d be. It was just a table read and yet there was already a sense of rightness there. He brought the edge of nervousness Crowley expected was essential to Cole’s character.

Then it was his time to shine. Or rather, not fail spectacularly which Crowley thought he could manage.

“You must be Mr. Hadley,” Aziraphale said.

“I see you’ve already met my daughter,” Crowley replied, affecting the posh accent usually required for this sort of period role.

“Crowley,” Adam interjected. Crowley froze, hand on page. Fuck, already a note. Maybe he would fuck up spectacularly. 

“You can use your normal voice.”

“What?” Aziraphale and Crowley said as one.

Adam cocked his head as if confused by the question. “Hadley feels like an outsider and has most of his life. Wouldn’t he feel like even more of an outsider as a Scot in an English family? In an English town?”

“Oh, that’s rather brilliant,” Aziraphale said and turned to look at Crowley with expectant eyes like Crowley would agree with him. 

Crowley hesitated, flummoxed by the direction. “I’ll keep going then?”

Adam waved at them to continue so Crowley turned back to the page and read on. Without any more interruptions he realized how now it was to be in a room with so many professionals. Truly talented professionals. And Aziraphale...Crowley already knew he was going to be a pleasure to work with. He had an energy, a light that he brought to a simple reading that made some of their exchanges _fun_ and that weren’t even really performing yet. 

Headache forgotten, Crowley realized this project was starting to look less like working for a paycheck and more like something worth looking forward to.

They wrapped up the read and Adam excused them, reminding them to get some rest before they were to come back to read through the next two episodes the following day. As the rest of the cast exchanged goodbyes, Crowley planned to slip away. Everyone besides Aziraphale hadn’t exactly gone out of their way to greet him and Aziraphale’s greeting hadn’t even been that friendly.

“I’m Pepper.”

Crowley drew up short in front of the exit as his onscreen daughter stepped in front of him. “Right, that’s what you said—”

She crossed her arms over her chest and adopted a stance Crowley could only call _intimidating_ despite the fact she was a good two heads shorter than him. 

“I’ve heard bad things about you, Anthony Crowley,” she said, tilting up her chin and Crowley thought for a short moment he was about to be punched in the face. “But I’ve heard those bad things were lies.”

“Um.”

“I don’t know what’s true, but I know this.” She leaned in closer and Crowley tried to stand his ground, but he had a feeling he leaned away. “I know jiu jitsu and could make you regret so much as looking at anyone wrong. Get me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Crowley said, a kneejerk response. She scowled.

“Don’t call me ma’am. That’s sexist.”

“Sir?” Crowley offered.

Pepper scoffed and turned on her heel, marching off out of the double doors. Gobsmacked, and needing to have his head on straight before finding his way to his scheduled fitting, Crowley waited to the count of five before following after. He didn’t want to be hot on her heels and be accused of chasing her or something.

“Crowley!”

“Chrissakes,” he said under his breath, turning around to face Aziraphale. The man grinned at him, all those perfect teeth on display.

“Can I help you?” Crowley asked.

"Let me buy you dinner," he offered. "As an apology for earlier."

Crowley found himself at a loss for words for the second time in less than ten minutes. Was a prerequisite for casting in South Downs a lack of social skills?

"I always think it's better to be friends with your coworkers. Well, at least friendly," Aziraphale added with a jovial chuckle. He rocked back and forth on his feet.

This was good. It was a good opportunity. If Aziraphale wanted to be friends, then Crowley should be his friend. That was the point of taking this job. To rub elbows with people who could get him more jobs and judging by everything that had happened today, Aziraphale seemed a fine sort of fellow. Going to dinner with a gay bloke wasn’t weird; it was friendly. Crowley had certainly had gay friends before. Every actor had.

Hastur and Ligur had come out after the Agent Cobra trilogy. They sent Crowley a Christmas card every year. But Hastur and Ligur hadn't seemed gay. Crowley hadn't known until he'd got the wedding invitation in the mail. Right from his bow tie down to the shining tips of his shoes Aziraphale seemed very gay as he looked expectantly at Crowley.

It was admirable in a way. To declare your differences in a world dead set on judging you. 

Exactly the way Crowley was currently judging him. Shitty of him really when he'd spent more time than was reasonable deciding on a jumper he hated wearing just so people wouldn't judge him poorly and here was Aziraphale looking like a very happy, very gay couch and maybe Crowley was a little envious of that. Maybe Crowley need more gay couches in his life.

"If you're not feeling up to it, we can always do another day," Aziraphale said as the silence stretched.

"No," Crowley said abruptly. "Dinner would be fine. You just surprised me. What, um, what time?"

"Seven? You're staying at the Grand, yes?"

"Aye. I'm afraid I don't know what's good around these parts. Haven’t been to Bristol much."

“I'll take care of that, don't you worry."

Crowley fidgeted awkwardly and then jerked his hand in the direction of the door. "I’m scheduled for a fitting now, so…"

"Oh, I won't keep you, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a kind smile and a soft touch to his elbow. “Six forty-five? In the lobby?”

“Right, yeah.” Then Crowley legged it out of the room and followed directions to his fitting to be pinned into what would surely be very tight pants.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Fyre again for the scots help and to mortifyingideal for enabling my worst impulses re:twitter

Aziraphale had conducted himself poorly, jumping to conclusions like that about his co-star, but he’d slept miserably the night before. He always did the first night in a hotel. A rather unfortunate quirk given his lifestyle, traveling so much and needing to be awake for early call times. He’d been grouchy, his brain-to-mouth filter practically non-existent, and, after what he’d heard, he’d been ready to think the worse of Anthony.

Crowley. He said he preferred to be called Crowley.

Aziraphale watched Crowley leave after the reading and felt much better about the entire project now that he had plans to make amends for his behavior. Aziraphale always did like getting to know his co-stars, especially his love interests. It made for a better experience all around.

It also turned out he and Crowley had a natural energy that held a great deal of promise for the future. Aziraphale felt it even in something as simple as a reading. 

Anathema came up beside him. "Is it just me or does that man seem very gay?"

Aziraphale clucked his tongue in reprimand. What a thing to say. He liked his PA very much, but she was something of a busybody. "Anathema Device! One does not speculate on a man’s—on a _person’s_ sexuality in this day and age."

"That’s a yes then."

"That is a _no_."

"Whatever you say," Anathema said as she pulled out her phone and started typing.

"I need a reservation for two tonight somewhere off the beaten path. I'm thinking Greek. Or somewhere with good wine— "

"I'm already on it," Anathema said, pushing up her glasses with one finger and still typing with her other hand.

"My word, some days I do think you're clairvoyant."

"What I am is an eavesdropper," Anathema said. "There. 7 o’clock. Niko’s. Good wine list and billed as Mediterranean."

"You’re a miracle worker."

She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Don't forget it."

* * *

Crowley was waiting for him in the lobby at 6:45, fidgeting on an uncomfortable looking divan beside a large plastic plant. He hadn’t changed out of the gray jumper he’d been wearing earlier but he had shrugged on a blazer that looked more his style. He had also done away with the sunglasses that made him look like he was doing his best to play at Robert Downey Jr., and Aziraphale could admit his face was rather arresting.

His nose was large and slightly crooked, as if in the process of creation God had reached out and tweaked it slightly to the left, and it perfectly complemented his high cheekbones and sharp jaw. Altogether a good face. A nice face. But it was his eyes that forced Aziraphale to pause. A clear, honeyed brown. An almost shocking color in an already unique face. 

Aziraphale also had to admit Crowley grew a beard significantly better than he did. His own patchy strawberry blond attempt at facial hair looked pathetic beside Crowley’s quite lush auburn beard.

Not noticing Aziraphale’s frank and most likely inappropriate appraisal, Crowley rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said, turning to gesture towards the door. “After you.”

They stepped out onto the pavement in a tense silence that Crowley was the first to break. "Thanks for inviting me out."

"Any time, my dear," Aziraphale said, leading Crowley away from the center of town. Niko's, as Aziraphale had requested, was a quaint little bistro tucked between a bookshop and a patisserie that Aziraphale made a note he'd like to try while he was in the area.

"S'just I think the rest of the cast might think better of me if you and I get along," he said.

Crowley had tucked his hands into the pockets of his blazer as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Aziraphale hoped his nerves would fade quickly. He wasn't the sort of person to be nervous around.

"Think better of you?"

He put in Anathema's name with the server and they were seated. Crowley shrugged off his jacket and stared at his water glass like it might save him from the conversation.

"I know what people in the industry say. About the stuff with Morningstar and Adam must not believe it if he hired me but I swear— 

Aziraphale dropped his hand atop Crowley's where it was gripping his butter knife so hard he was shaking. 

"Please don’t concern yourself. My PA informed me you were...framed? Would that be the word? It’s a difficult thing in the industry when people have more power than us."

Crowley relaxed so entirely it was like watching jello melt.

"Aye. It is."

Then Crowley gave him the first genuine smile Aziraphale thought he'd seen out of the man since they'd met. His incisors were slightly crooked which Aziraphale thought was rather charming.

"Alright," Crowley said with some determination as he snapped the menu open. "What's good here?"

"May I remind you this establishment is entirely new to me as well?" Aziraphale said, drawing his glasses out of his pocket and slipping them on. "Though when I chose Greek it was because I was in the mood for kabab."

He glanced up at Crowley and found the man staring at him. 

"What?" 

"Those glasses are objectively ridiculous," Crowley said flatly. 

"Excuse me," Aziraphale said, more amused than offended. "I didn't remark upon your choice of sunglasses this morning."

"No, you just accused me of being hungover."

Aziraphale bit back a smile. He liked people who didn't hold back their thoughts. It was why he hired Anathema all those years ago. Best keep honest people around when one worked in a competitive field.

"I didn't have all the facts at the time."

"What facts should I have about your Dumbledore glasses?" Crowley retorted, raising his eyebrows. When his eyebrows went up like that, his forehead creased in several deep lines and he rather resembled a muppet. Not that Aziraphale would make such an observation.

"Simply that I think they suit me," Aziraphale said without missing a beat.

Crowley took a deep breath, surely ready to continue their back and forth, but was unfortunately foiled by the arrival of their server.

Aziraphale placed an order for baba ghanouj and dolmes and then asked Crowley, "Do you prefer red or white?"

"Wine?" One corner of his lip hiked up, exposing his incisor. His face was so daringly expressive that it must carry into his performances. 

"Yes, of course wine."

"Whatever’s fine," he said dismissively so Aziraphale chose a dry white before they placed their orders and sent the nice waiter on his way.

"So," Aziraphale began when the wine was finally poured. "I suppose I was quite surprised you accepted this role."

"Really?" Crowley nibbled on a bit of pita and ignored the eggplant dip. 

"I looked you up. This isn't exactly your area."

Crowley shrugged. “The writing was good, and I needed the work.”

Aziraphale couldn’t exactly fault that despite it perhaps being the least interesting answer in existence.

Crowley sipped his wine and then looked at the glass speculatively as if surprised by the flavor. He paused, then gestured to Aziraphale. “What about you? Just another notch in the proverbial period drama bedpost?”

“Actually, this role is very important to me,” Aziraphale said. This was a speech he’d given to many a person at this point. His publicist. The producers. This show mattered to him. “So many mainstream queer stories are full of tragedy. When I saw this script, I knew I wanted to see it made and if I could, I wanted to be involved. I want queer people to see stories like this. To know they can have happy endings too. That they deserve them.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment. Long enough that the sounds of the other diners began to filter in between them, the sound of knives on plates, the low chatter of couples.

“Well, compared to that, my reason sounds daft,” Crowley said, turning his eyes back to the appetizer.

“Come, come. I don’t think it’s _daft_. I’m quite glad you took the job. I think we will work well together.

“Even though I’m not…” Crowley seemed to wrestle with himself. “You know. Like you are?”

“Queer? Gay? It’s not a dirty word,” Aziraphale said, dead amused by the way Crowley’s face began to turn red. 

“Yes,” Crowley mumbled. He jabbed a grape leaf with a fork and shoved two in his mouth. His blush didn’t recede despite his obvious attempts to distract himself. 

“Surely you’ve played homosexual characters before.”

Aziraphale leaned back in his seat to allow the waiter to place his dish in front of him.

Crowley shook his head and swallowed. He gestured emphatically with his fork. “I was known for _action movies_. Casting directors weren’t exactly thinking of me for those sorts of roles.”

“But before that,” Aziraphale protested in disbelief. “On stage or…”

“Nope, never. My da would’ve...no. This is new territory,” Crowley admitted, looking at the table shaking his head. 

A bit of Aziraphale’s enthusiasm drained away. Crowley had no experience with this. What if Crowley was _incapable_? Anathema’s observations aside, he seemed very straight which wasn’t _bad_ for the role of John Hadley, but Aziraphale did not relish dealing with some straight actor who grimaced his way between kissing scenes.

Crowley frowned at him, an expression that carved lines around his mouth. “It won’t be a problem or else I wouldn’t have signed on.”

Aziraphale didn’t immediately respond. He didn’t know how, not wanting to insult the man by questioning his ability to do his job.

“If I couldn’t play at romance with someone I wasn’t attracted to, there was no way I could have made it this far. Some of the women I’ve had to romance. Well…” His frown cocked into a lopsided and wry smile. “And you’ve got all your teeth so you’re already in the top ten of people I’ll have kissed for a job.”

A laugh burst from Aziraphale’s chest. “I don’t have _all_ my teeth. I did have the wisdom teeth removed.”

“Ah, well. Now I’m put off,” Crowley said with a wrinkle of his nose.

Relieved and a bit warmed by the return to their earlier growing camaraderie, Aziraphale leaned in. “I even had an extra one. Right in the back.”

“Practically a shark.”

Aziraphale gave him a satisfied smile and took a bite of his shawarma. It was as delicious as he had hoped.

Crowley snorted, drawing his attention. He swallowed the bite in his mouth and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Like your food, then?”

“Pardon?”

“You made a noise,” Crowley explained, looking amused. “Do you always do that?”

“I’m not quite sure really,” Aziraphale said, glancing down at his plate, truly wanting to continue eating. It was very good.

“You just did,” Crowley said. He was far too delighted for Aziraphale’s tastes. “Like this.” 

He shoved a too big bite of spinach pie in his mouth and made what sounded like a tiny _num-num_ sound.

“I do not!” Aziraphale protested, horrified at the thought he’d been humming and numming around his food in front of people.

“Go on then.” Crowley waved at him and returned to his own plate. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“You were the one asking me questions,” Aziraphale retorted and didn’t wait for a response before taking another bite.

Crowley guffawed. “You _do_. You’re like a bloody cartoon. Waistcoat, wee glasses, cute little noises.”

“Well, excuse me if I enjoy myself.”

“No, please. Don’t stop on my account.”

“Now I’m self-conscious!”

“I can look away,” Crowley offered.

“Why would that help? You don’t listen with your eyes,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Maybe I do. Maybe I’ve got that—that synesthesia.” 

Crowley stared at him and Aziraphale stared back. 

“What if I say it’s nice to see someone enjoying themselves so much?” Crowley offered, doing that muppet look again. Eyebrows all the way up. 

He seemed genuine and Aziraphale was rather hungry, mouthwatering from the two bites he had already had. He hesitated before raising the fork to his mouth. Crowley gestured impatiently for him to go on. He slid the chicken into his mouth, relishing the spice and tender meat, not realizing his eyes had slipped closed until he opened them. Crowley gave him a gentle smile.

“See? Not so hard. Want to try some of mine?” he asked, nudging his plate across the table.

Aziraphale happily sampled a bite (it was his due, he felt, after Crowley was so carelessly rude about his eating habits). “Delicious. What do you think?”

“S’alright,” Crowley said, taking the plate back. “Bit of spinach. Bit of cheese.”

Aziraphale made a disgruntled noise at the lackluster summary.

“Wine though? I do like that.” Crowley sat back, glass in hand, and took a sip. 

"I suppose we can agree on that," Aziraphale said diplomatically.

Conversation drifted between ridiculous work stories to various strong (and differing) opinions on literature and television. Outside of being honest and somewhat acerbic, Crowley was a wonderful conversationalist and the time passed easily as they spoke. As much as Aziraphale looked forward to welcoming a new coworker, he always expected a bit of awkward silence, a few cleared throats and relief when the evening finally ended. Tonight however, as the waiter was retrieving the bill, Aziraphale found himself with his hand out, demanding, "Give me your cell phone."

"Why?" Crowley asked with narrowed eyes.

"When I get back to the hotel, I will send you a link to a phenomenal performance of Hamlet you can watch online."

"What if I don't want to watch a phenomenal performance of Hamlet?" Crowley sneered, holding his phone up by his shoulder. 

Aziraphale wiggled his fingers impatiently. "Give me your phone."

Rolling his eyes, Crowley slapped the phone into Aziraphale’s palm. He scowled as he typed in his contact information and sent himself a text.

"There," Aziraphale said, satisfied, before handing back the phone. "You will watch this performance and you will eat your hat."

"Prefer not to really. Hard on the digestion, hats," Crowley said as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

When the waiter returned with the bill, Aziraphale automatically laid down his card, earning himself irritated noises from Crowley as the waiter retreated.

"I invited you, so it was my treat. You can get the next one." Aziraphale said, surprising himself at his own brazen assumption. 

Except Crowley smiled and said, “You’ve got a deal.”

So perhaps not too brazen.

They left the shop and to Aziraphale’s delight the patisserie was still open next door. "Do you mind if I stop in before we head back?"

Crowley peered up at the sign and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Why not? Any particular reason or are you suddenly craving...eclairs?"

"I won't know until I see it," Aziraphale declared.

They stepped inside the small shop, empty except for them and the older woman working the till. Aziraphale took a deep breath and enjoyed the wonderful scent of baked goods and sweet treats. 

"I was hoping to get something for the morning actually," Aziraphale said, "but something for tonight would be lovely as well."

"Get whatever you like," Crowley said as he leaned over to inspect the glass case of various offerings. "This can be my treat, hm?"

A little spark went off in Aziraphale's chest when Crowley smiled at him and he quickly tamped it down. Finding someone objectively attractive and being attracted to them were two very different things and Aziraphale thought it best to stay in the former camp with Crowley for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that he was straight and also that they had several months of working together ahead of them.

After some hemming and quite a bit of hawing (at which Crowley complained), Aziraphale did indeed purchase an eclair and a cheese danish for the morning. 

"Sorry," the woman behind the counter said with a look on her face that Aziraphale recognized. They'd been caught out.

"Are you Anthony Crowley?"

Aziraphale turned to Crowley and bit back a grin at the dumbfounded look on his face.

"I loved you in Rivers Tears," she said, hand going to her heart. "When your wife died and then her evil twin seduced you. Me and the girls talked about nothing else for weeks."

Crowley's expression screamed _HELP ME_ but Aziraphale thought it a very nice time to enjoy his eclair, so he took a seat at the small table by the window and watched as the woman bustled out from behind the counter.

"Tell me," she said. "Why did you leave the show?"

"It was just a one series arc," Crowley said, his accent thickening. He cast another hopeful look at Aziraphale who pointedly licked the cream from inside the eclair.

"Nobody’s going to believe this. Anthony Crowley in my shop. Why on earth are you growing a beard? It hides your lovely dimples."

"Aziraphale," Crowley said through gritted teeth.

"What? It does hide your lovely dimples. Though it is a fetching color, don't you think, Miriam?" Aziraphale asked, calling the woman by the name on her nametag.

The woman seemed torn between acknowledging Crowley was still handsome and defending his dimples but, in the end, she didn’t comment, only extracted her phone and asked, "Could I take a picture with you? It would mean a lot."

"Um, yeah, sure," Crowley said. A deer in headlights would look less terrified.

Aziraphale almost offered to take the photo but the selfie was snapped before he could even do anything. It was probably for the best. He had chocolate on his fingers.

"Nice to meet you, um, Miriam," Crowley said before grabbing Aziraphale's elbow and hissing, "We are leaving."

Aziraphale grabbed his things and let Crowley lead him out. "That lady was quite a fan then."

"God, I didn't even know the soaps had fans," Crowley said, tugging at his hair as they waited for a signal to turn. 

"Oh, she was really rather sweet."

"She's going to put it on Twitter," Crowley moaned while they crossed the road. Aziraphale had to hurry to keep up with his long strides. “And they’re all going to think my beard is ridiculous.”

"Yes, that is how this works," Aziraphale said. "Don’t you have other fans on Twitter?”

"I don't think so. No. Last I checked it was a load of your fans talking about how flat my arse is."

Aziraphale pointedly did not look at Crowley's bum. Or even his general leg region. 

"Do you have a Twitter account?”

“No. I just, um, lurk.”

“Well, that’s your first mistake. Get one. It does wonders I’m told for communicating with your fans. I'm afraid my publicist manages mine. I find the whole thing a bit overwhelming, but he’d discuss it with you if you like I’m sure."

"I don’t know. Seems too much effort just to have people like Miriam tag you in photos and then have a load of teenagers make fun of your bead. Which is itchy and miserable. Is your beard this itchy?"

Aziraphale paused in the lobby of the Grand and gave Crowley a look. The man really did try to have the air of someone cool, collected. Someone who sat back and sipped his wine when really, he was a leg bouncing, nail biting person. Far more interesting by Aziraphale’s estimation.

"First of all, your beard is lovely. Stop saying rude things about it. Second, you need to use beard oil to help with the itching though with that level of growth I'm sure they'll let you shave soon. You've got enough for the sideburns they're going for."

Crowley’s hand self-consciously flew to his face. "Really?"

"Of course, my dear. You may not believe it, but I give very good advice." 

Crowley snorted in disbelief but had the good sense not to argue.

Aziraphale called the lifts and turned back to Crowley. "It really was a lovely evening."

"Even with me bullying you?"

"Oh, I liked that bit," Aziraphale said. "Keeps one's ego in check."

They slipped into the lifts. Aziraphale was on four and Crowley on five.

"I'll send you that link I promised," Aziraphale said as he departed.

"I won’t watch it," Crowley called after him, wiggling his fingers in farewell.

The lift doors closed and Aziraphale patted his chest, readjusting his blazer. A good evening, he thought, and most certainly a new friend. 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Fyre for scotpicking, britpicking, and letting me complain when this fic started to have real emotions instead of me just banging around on the keyboard going LALALALALALALA
> 
> A few homophobic comments in here (Southern Pansy is as homophobic as it gets) and Crowley twisting his brain up into fun and exciting shapes to convince himself he's doing GREAT.

A week of meetings and fittings and table reads and it was _work_ but it was good work and Crowley realized his instincts had been right. This was going to be a good project. The best project he’d worked on in years. It wasn’t just Aziraphale. It was the whole lot of them. Young and professional and ready to do the work. When Crowley finished out the week and returned to Glasgow, he realized he was already looking forward to going back.

He finally got his beard shaved into ridiculous looking sideburns on his final day in Bristol and a nice lady in hair and make-up gave him some tips on how to stop the itching. When he got back to his apartment, he had a nice little facial hair station on his bathroom counter and the barista at the coffee shop across the street complimented his “sideys” which made him feel very cool for at least two days.

* * *

He hated to admit it but starting a Twitter had been a bloody good idea. It confirmed something he’d been terrified to ever look into. The rumors started in the industry about his bad behavior had only ever been in the industry. No one seemed to think ill of him out in the world. People either didn’t know who he was or wondered where he had gone off to after making Agent Cobra: Serpent’s Rise.

He had a fucking chance to start over. Even edging into fifty, he might be able to do it. Faded action star or no, maybe he could start doing work like Aziraphale. If South Downs was any good, maybe he could find work in other period dramas or even modern literature adaptations. Start the sort of a career that other old British actors had.

But he was getting ahead of himself.

* * *

* * *

Crowley knocked on the door with his required offering. Today was a tartlet per request. Apple.

Tracy answered the door with a huge smile and a kiss to the cheek. "Anthony, come in," she said, tugging him inside by his elbow.

"Is that wee Tony?" Shadwell shouted from inside the house.

"Who else would it be, luv?" Tracy yelled back, giving Crowley a wink as they passed through the entry. Walking inside Shadwell’s house always felt like walking back in time. The faded greens and whites reminding Crowley of his childhood home. That house might have been sold, remodeled long ago, but it felt preserved here in certain ways.

Tracy took the tart and his coat before they went inside. Shadwell was in his recliner, smoking his pipe, as was his habit, and squinted at him. "Christ but ye’re lookin’ more like yer old man every time I see ye." 

"It’s the hair, getting redder every day," he said wryly.

Shadwell squinted at him. “He didnae ken how to shave hisself either. Lambchops like that? ”

Crowley ignored him. That was a typical Shadwell comment. He turned to Tracy. "Can I help with anything?"

"Set the table,” she said, already passing off the plates. “There's a dear."

The old formica table was chipped in all the familiar places and Shadwell and Tracy’s conversation was much the same. An exchange of practiced yes and no questions about church and the hydrangeas and Crowley’s nonexistent lovelife as Crowley set out the plates. When they sat down for dinner, Shadwell heaved himself into his seat with a great sigh before taking his first bite of the potatoes.

Their dynamic escapsed Crowley’s understanding. From what he gathered before his father passed away, Tracy had been Shadwell’s housekeeper and now they were involved. They seemed happy enough. Crowley came by because Shadwell and his father had been close and with his father gone, Crowley didn't have very many other people in his life. He also had the feeling Tracy would hunt him down and drag him to dinner by his ear if he missed more than a month without a good excuse.

"So you have a new job then?"

"Same job."

"Still fannyin’ about on stage?"

"It's not...fannyin’."

Shadwell grunted and dug into his food, leaving Tracy to pick up the conversation. 

"Tell us about it. I know you weren't keen on those soap operas."

"Yeah, this is a bit more excitin’. I’ll be down south. Filmin’ in Bristol for a drama." He hesitated, not sure how much to tell. Tracy would be fine with the ins and outs of the story line but Shadwell was traditional, like his da and Crowley didn’t exactly want to hear it. 

"That _is_ exciting!" Tracy said.

"It’s with, uh, Aziraphale Fell actually,” Crowley said. It felt like a confession.

"What? That southern pansy yer always watchin’?" Shadwell asked Tracy.

"Don’t call him a pansy," Crowley said, stabbing at his roast.

"It's uncouth," Tracy added.

Shadwell grumbled through a particularly uncouth bite of meat.

"That is exciting!" Tracy said, directing her attention to Crowley. "I know you didn’t love all those soaps you were working on. What was the last one?"

"Loch Lenore," Crowley grumbled. He'd only had one episode. His character had died gruesome. Meat grinder at a butcher shop.

"You have a dedicated audience with us and you always will," Tracy said and patted his hand. "Now eat up. You’re wasting away. What are you feeding yourself in that fancy apartment of yours? You’d think all that money was going to rent with the way you show up here. Bag of bones."

Crowley took a bite of potatoes and decided not to respond. He maybe, just maybe, had been wasting his money on rent. But moving was a pain. And expensive. And he liked his flat even if it was full of shit furniture from a decade ago.

"How has your gout been?" Crowley asked, directing the question to shadwell and knowing it would steer the conversation away from him. 

Tracy clucked her tongue. "No gout talk over dinner."

"Ach, woman, wee Tony asked about the gout so I can talk about the gout."

Much as he found Shadwell and Tracy old fashioned and often trying, they reminded him of his parents when he was young. He liked that about them and it was why he kept up his visits. He would never waste away another year on debauchery or what have you like he had between the first and second Agent Cobra movies. Not if he had Sunday dinners here at Shadwell's to remind him that acting was...fannying about in front of the cameras for money.

They ate their dinner and shared the tart and Crowley listened to them bicker about the neighbor's new fence. If it was too tall or if it was on their property. And when Tracy saw him out it was with a kiss on the cheek and a firm, if you ever need anything you'll call us.

He drove home and watched cat videos until he fell asleep.

* * *

* * *

Returning to the studio in May had a strange air of excitement. Crowley could only assume it was universal. They were finally getting started. Finally. The fluttering in Crowley's gut would not stop for anything. He kept checking his phone for texts from Aziraphale as he made his way to his hotel room. They’d texted a lot over the break between the table reads and principal photography. Aziraphale had opinions on everything and Crowley liked hearing them. It had been dead helpful to have someone to bounce his questions off of as he worked through the script.

Crowley’s nerves oddly reminded him of September in his last year in secondary. Arthur Langley had gone on vacation with his grandparents and Crowley had counted the days until he could see his best friend again. He remembered picking him up for their first day back at school, seeing Arthur for the first time in nearly three weeks, and feeling near faint with the joy of it. He hadn't had many friends like Arthur since. It was a shame really. Arthur had gone on to join the footballers and Crowley had done drama and they'd stayed friends for as long as they were able.

Arthur was a sales manager now. With a wife and a kid. Or that’s what Crowley knew last had heard. He lived in London. How he’d ended up that far south Crowley didn't know.

Seeing Aziraphale get out of the lifts was a little like seeing Arthur step out of his front door.

Crowley dropped his room key and swore.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, delighted and bright eyed. "I didn't think I'd see you until tomorrow."

"I thought you'd be staying at some flat in the area?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s brightness dimmed. "There was a small kerfuffle with the previous tenant and I won't be able to move in for a week. So it's unfortunately the hotel life for me. What about you?"

"Staying here until I find something actually," Crowley said. "I had a bit of a miscommunication."

Namely that Crowley did not have a PA because he could not afford one and whoever was in charge of getting him lodgings in Bristol did not _believe_ this and sent things to Beez who ignored the paperwork which, while frustrating, was fair, because that wasn't their job.

"Ah," Aziraphale said, mouth parting gently on the syllable. Crowley had heard it often enough on the phone now, in their long conversations debating the script. It was a sound Aziraphale liked to make when he had a judgment he didn't want to voice. Crowley waited, knowing the judgment was forthcoming anyway.

"I just think if they are going to hire someone as green as this Kylie girl to manage the placement of the actors—"

"Aziraphale, don't get the poor girl fired. It's probably a difficult job."

Aziraphale sniffed. "I'm not going to get her fired. My complaints are for your ears only."

Cocking a brow in Aziraphale’s direction, Crowley said, "I only believe you a little."

"It depends on if the kerfuffle is no longer...kerfuffling at the end of the week."

Silence fell, for a moment oddly thick and confusing and Aziraphale shook his head, gesturing at Crowley's door. "My apologies, I interrupted. You best get settled. I’ll see you in the morning."

"S’no trouble. See tomorrow."

Crowley eased into his room and was pleased to find no overwhelming scent of chemicals like last time. He kicked off his boots and flopped onto the bed with a sigh. He felt off. Exhausted and restless.

He pulled out his phone and saw a notification. He ignored the odd pull of disappointment when he saw it was from Beez. A forwarded request for an interview.

_You need to get a publicist_.

Crowley frowned. He hadn't had a publicist since before being dropped from _Starstuff_. They'd gone running as fast as everyone else when Morningstar had declared him poison in the industry.

Crowley tossed his phone on the bed and groaned. He'd take a shower. Swipe off the plane gunk and watch some telly before getting an early night. Early call time tomorrow. First scene on the schedule was the Significant Hand Touch scene. Episode two. 

Aziraphale had said significant hand touches were the bread and butter of both period dramas and queer media so this was an integral scene. For John, a moment of clarity. He was attracted to this man. The father of his soon to be son-in-law. A complication. 

Crowley was...nervous to perform something like this. He'd never done anything so subtle onscreen. It reminded him of stage work. Something he hadn't done in a very long time.

Stripping out of his t-shirt and jeans, he turned the hotel shower as high as it would go, filling the room with steam before stepping in. The hot air filled his lungs, opening him up and relaxing him.

He knew why he was nervous. He just didn't want to admit it. He closed his eyes and let the spray beat against his face. He felt all hot inside and bad. God. Bad. How nondescript.

He wasn’t homophobic. Not really. He had his stack of Christmas cards from his gay ex-costars. He had this new, growing friendship with Aziraphale. He wasn't uncomfortable with either of those things. He hated to think he'd inherited any of the small town prejudices he’d grown up with. The things people like his father and Shadwell said so easily. He didn't agree with those things. Never had.

His agent was queer for fuck’s sake! Though he wasn't sure he could take credit for that since signing with them was when he'd been scraping the bottom of the barrel and he’d been desperate to find anyone who could take him. Though they were great. Great in the way a shark was great.

He was better than this.

And yet he felt bad.

Christ, what was all this dwelling doing but making it worse? In his stupid anxiety fit, he’d forgotten to bring his own soap into the shower and scrubbed down with the awful soap provided by the hotel. It made him smell of orange blossoms and almonds, but it got the job done and when he climbed out of the shower, he felt a little less bad.

As Aziraphale would say, the kerfuffle was no longer kerfuffling.

He changed into pajamas and got in bed, flipping on the television to wile away the next hour or so until he grew tired enough to sleep. Except he didn’t get tired. The television flickered and flickered and he changed from the news to an old comedy. The clock ticked on and he sighed before pulling out his phone.

It was still open to his last exchange with Aziraphale. He thought about tomorrow again. The Significant Hand Touch scene. Would it be alright?

He opened up a new message. Hesitated. 

A voice on the screen drew his attention. He looked at the screen and saw a very familiar blond man pleading with a woman. His cravat was impeccable. Crowley laughed and snapped a picture of the screen.

* * *

"Gin," Aziraphale said with great relish as he laid out his cards. A straight and three tens. Bastard. 

"You’re too good at this, " Crowley said after another sip of wine which was also too good even when drank out of a sad hotel mug.

They’d ended up at the small table nestled against the wall of the kitchenette in Crowley’s room. The chairs were hideously patterned but mildly comfortable, and made more comfortable by the fact that the company was good and the wine was flowing.

"Best five out of seven?” Aziraphale offered, already shuffling the cards for another round.

"Right, have an excuse to wipe the floor with me."

“You’re the one who invited me here,” Aziraphale pointed out as he dealt the cards. He raised his eyebrows innocently and gave Crowley a _look_ that was all sorts of infuriating. It had been so _long_ since Crowley had just gotten along with someone like this. It felt monumental.

Aziraphale won that round (and the next because of course he did) until the cards were laid out between them and the bottle drained. Crowley was pleasantly tipsy and finally feeling tired as Aziraphale gathered his cards and sighed that sort of sigh that meant he was about to say he should leave.

“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” Crowley said, not expecting to say it and feeling much better once he did.

Aziraphale calmly set down the cards and fixed his eyes on Crowley. They were a soothing sort of blue really, except previously Crowley could have sworn they were gray. Hazel was it? That changed like that.

“What are you nervous about?” he asked, no judgment in his voice.

Crowley rubbed his forehead with one hand. It was nearly one am. A terrible time to talk about anything. “Fucking it up. Getting fired. Not getting work ever again. You know. That whole...thing.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, sounding so serious that Crowley dropped his hand to look at him. 

“Were you this nervous for your first job?”

Crowley snorted. “No. I was seventeen. I was too stupid to be nervous.”

“I don’t see what’s changed then,” Aziraphale said and Crowley made a noise of distress.

“And you were a genius at seventeen?”

“I graduated early.”

“Of course you did,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes.

“The readings went wonderfully,” Aziraphale said, breezing past Crowley’s sarcasm. “ _You’ll_ do wonderfully.”

Crowley dropped his head on the table and groaned. “You’re right. I just can’t get my head to shut up about it. Significant hand touches! What if I make it insignificant?”

“All you really have to do is touch my hand. The editor does the rest. And the music,” Aziraphale said frankly. “You could be thinking about candy floss and dolphins if that’s what gets you through.”

Crowley looked up and wrinkled his nose. “Dolphins? Why dolphins?”

“I don’t know. I was trying to think of something...insignificant.”

“Dolphins are pretty bloody significant. Marine mammals, they are. Important to the ecosystem.”

“Crowley, that’s not...that’s not the point I’m trying to make.”

“Yes, fine. Significant or insignificant, I cannot personally ruin everything.”

Aziraphale nodded decisively and then stood. “Now, get some rest. You’ll feel better if you do.”

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure about that, but time was going to pass whether or not he wanted it to and tomorrow would come even if he didn’t sleep and trying to do this without any sleep at all sounded like a terrible idea.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Aziraphale said and he tucked his cards into his pocket before departing.

Crowley tossed the wine bottle into the recycling bin and brushed his teeth. When he laid down to sleep, to his surprise, he drifted off immediately. 

It turned out Aziraphale was right. He _did_ feel better when he woke up, if a little gritty around the eyes from lack of sleep. A shower and a cup of coffee set him to rights and he arrived at the studio feeling better than he had the night before. Aziraphale’s pep talk, it seemed, had worked wonders.

The production assistant, Erik, was an energetic, rabbity sort of twenty-something who jumped at the first chance to get Crowley anything he asked. With all the other new actors, he didn’t feel quite so out of place without his own assistant even as Aziraphale conferred with his own young woman over in the corner of the room when people began to arrive on set.

The Hadley house set was a sight to behold, a recreation of a real house in Brighton that they would eventually be doing some onsite work with. It was a bit like being in a museum really. If the museum was made of cardboard and you like going to museums wearing very tight pants and uncomfortably high-collared shirts.

They set up in John’s study for the first scene. The discussion of Abigail’s dowry, the engagement, and ultimately, the Hand Touch.

“This is about tension,” Adam said as the cast and crew began to move together to set up the scene. Crowley locked eyes with the director. He was so fucking young.

“Hadley, you know you’re gay. You’re as at peace with that as someone in this era can be, but William is still a surprise and you’re not sure if he’s a welcome one.”

Crowley nodded. 

“Cole,” Adam said, turning to Aziraphale who looked right at home in the fashions of the era. The costumers had not put him in such tight clothes, but his coat hugged his chest and his trousers were fitted. He looked...nice.

Aziraphale listened to Adam’s direction as Crowley’s hands started to sweat. Not that it mattered much, Adam called action before his palms could get puddly.

It was easy then. Crowley had forgotten that, with his nerves. It was easy to act with someone else who had the same energy as you. To click on that level and have everything else fall away as you moved in tandem.

Hadley spoke of concerns for his daughter’s future. Cole assured him his son had a bright future. Hadley pressed. Cole pushed back.

Then they were standing over Hadley’s desk as Crowley tossed out the prop letter. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience planning weddings, but your son sounds like a suitable match.”

Aziraphale smiled as his hand dropped to the desk to take the letter. Their hands brushed over the document and Aziraphale gasped, mouth parting as he jerked his hand back. Crowley froze. Heat rushed through every centimeter of his body, including—

"Cut."

Crowley clutched the desk and angled his body back to hide his stiffening cock. What the fuck? People didn't get erections from a bloody hand touch. Not even a Significant Hand Touch. 

The script supervisor came up and rearranged his hair before they re-set for a different angle. The cool touch of her hand helped him focus as Aziraphale cleared his throat.

When Adam called action, Crowley’s ill-timed erection was gone but he couldn't stop thinking about it as they went through the lines once more, continuing past the touch and into Cole's hasty exit before the scene finished.

There were three more scenes to film that day all in the Hadley house, but that was the last with Aziraphale. Not wanting to discuss anything about what had happened, Crowley took the ten minute break to dash to the bathroom and hide until Aziraphale left.

When enough time passed, he went back out to the set. Erik found him, all abuzz the way the assistant always seemed to be.

"Aziraphale was looking for you," he said, voice cracking.

"Was he?" Crowley observed, catching the eye of the AD to make sure she knew he was on time.

"Yeah, he, uh, he left, but he wanted me to say, uh, that he thought it felt 'adequately significant."

Crowley jerked his head to look at Erik. His heart raced painfully, pounding in his ears.

"He said you'd know what that meant and that you should call him if you wrap up here on time," Erik finished with a shrug before hopping off to bother someone else.

The script supervisor came by to talk to him after that and Crowley didn't have time to think about significance or anything else but being John Hadley for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ah feck theres an inconsistency in crowleys Twitter handle in this chap that i will fix in the morning!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Fyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre) for a quick britpick and scotspick.
> 
> Also to [jb612](jb612.tumblr.com) for the Colin Firth joke AND helping me mock up the DM's here. You're the best.

* * *

Crowley got a publicist and did not think about his hard-on.

He did the scenes required of him and did not think about his hard-on.

People got hard-ons all the time. When he was in secondary, he got hard-ons left and right over the strangest things. He could have looked at a pen wrong and he’d get a stiffie. Maybe it was like method acting. Maybe he was a better actor than he thought. He was getting into the role so it was just an adrenaline response. Or something.

Most likely, he’d just not had sex in so long that a gentle charged touch had set him off.

"So you’re doing the podcast then?" Aziraphale asked over Chinese takeaway after the first week of filming. Kylie had managed to square away the issue with Aziraphale’s flat and that found Crowley crumpled up on a comfortable sofa that reminded him of something he'd find in Tracy’s house. Minus the smell of tobacco. The flats they usually ended up in for filming came furnished and he couldn’t help but wonder if Aziraphale requested it look like several tea cozies had a fight and then exploded.

"My publicist says I need to get my name out there again. Get a buzz going," Crowley said around a bite of noodles. 

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and said something about not talking with your mouth full.

"Well, any press for the show is certainly appreciated."

Aziraphale popped a dumpling in his mouth and chewed, making a few of his little num-num noises. Crowley didn’t comment on the sound, but he sorely wanted to. He and Aziraphale had been spending a lot of time together since coming back to Bristol this first week. Sharing lunches when their schedules allowed it. Going to dinner. And now here they were. Tomorrow was their first day off and their big plans were takeaway, a movie, and maybe getting a little tipsy. 

"And it will be good practice for you,” Aziraphale continued. “Once we're promoting the show, you'll need to be at the top of your game."

Crowley grimaced and snatched the container of kung pao chicken from the coffee table. He hated press junkets and interviews. He got all tongue-tied. You never knew when you'd say something that would be taken out of context.

They ate in silence for a bit and at first it was nice. The sort of silence you fall into with people you trust. Then Aziraphale’s chopsticks clacked over the container of dumplings, drawing Crowley’s attention to his hands which forced him to inevitably think about the Hand Touch and the resultant hard-on

"Do ye ever go out?" he asked suddenly.

"By go out, I presume you mean out on the town?"

"Yeah, on the pull. Y’know, picking up lasses. Or lads, in your case," Crowley said, jabbing his chopsticks into a container upright. Aziraphale received them and set them aside on a plate.

"When I was younger," Aziraphale admitted. "But such a lifestyle lost its appeal after I started having more serious relationships. And when one is well-known, it raises difficulties."

Crowley had used that to his advantage when he was younger but before his father died he'd been an ass about a lot of things. Women included. 

“Aye, you’re right. I don’t know what I’m thinking. You can’t just...go out.”

Aziraphale gave him a wry smile. “I can't. Besides, the sorts of bars I would go to in order to meet someone are not the sort you would frequent."

"I dunno," Crowley said. He took a drink from his beer. "Women go to gay bars."

"Women go to gay bars to not be hit on by straight men," Aziraphale said. His eyebrows were up and he firmly looked to be switching into lecture mode. "And if you showed up to a gay bar, dressed in _those_ jeans, showing off that much chest I dont think its the women youd need to worry about."

Crowley pressed a hand to his chest and gasped. "Aziraphale! Are you trying to tell me I look sexy? In a... _gay way?"_

Aziraphale threw a noodle at him and it hit him square on the cheek. He sucked it into his mouth, purposefully being a bit grosser than usual as he swiped the sauce off his cheek with his tongue and then chewed with his mouth open.

"You are a wretch," Aziraphale said dismissively and he stood to begin to clean up.

"A lonely wretch,” Crowley whined, swinging himself to his feet and following Aziraphale into the small kitchen with a few of the half empty takeaway containers. He leaned against the counter as Aziraphale started to wash the dumpling container to put it in the recycling. 

“So you would go out then? If you could? You’re not seeing anyone?”

The brush in Aziraphale’s hand clattered against the side of the plastic container. He cleared his throat and gave Crowley a strange look.

"Um. No. I'm not, I’m afraid. My last serious relationship ended...a year ago now."

Crowley let out a long breath. "Oh, I'm sorry. How long were you together?"

"Three years," Aziraphale said.

"Damn."

Aziraphale laughed and shook the droplets of water from the container in his hand before snagging the tea towel to dry it. "It's quite alright. It ended amicably. George realized he wanted children and I had gone into the relationship knowing I didn't and we spoke frankly about the change in our goals."

"How did you two meet?" Crowley asked, oddly fascinated.

Aziraphale placed the container in the recycling and began to put things in the refrigerator. "We were in a production of Comedy of Errors together."

"He was an actor too then?"

Aziraphale hummed. "Yes but he stuck to the stage. Mostly Shakespeare. Quite talented really. Dreadfully handsome."

Crowley laughed and leaned forward over the breakfast bar, elbows on the counter. "Only the best for you."

"What about you?" Aziraphale asked as he withdrew two wine glasses from the cupboard. "I'm led to believe you have quite the rakish history. Has Anthony Crowley continued to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him?"

Grimacing, Crowley rolled his eyes. "I was a twat when I was younger. Lately...I've been busy. I think the last I dated was a woman who did hair and makeup on a soap. She was nice but I didn't have the time. Or she wasn’t that interested. We maybe saw each other three times. I don't even remember her last name."

"Oh my," Aziraphale said, hand to heart. "No wonder you want to meet people."

It was Crowley's turn to laugh as he returned to the living room. "Who knows. Maybe there will be some woman working on South Downs who'll strike a fire in my heart and loins."

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said, unimpressed. “Loin fires abound.”

“What are we watching then? I had something in mind if you didn’t have a plan,” Crowley said, pulling up YouTube.

"Funny you should ask. With your upcoming interview, I was thinking _Agent Cobra_ might be—"

“Oh, interesting,” Crowley said. “I was hoping a little _Night of the Iguana_.”

Aziraphale rushed to the side of the couch. “How on _earth_ did you find a copy of that?”

“Your legions of Twitter followers know everything,” Crowley said easily.

“Fine,” Aziraphale said as he tossed the film into Crowley’s lap. “I insist on a double feature then.”

“You got the _blu ray_?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“It was on sale,” Aziraphale said primly, handing off a glass of wine.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Crowley said. “Are you ready? I heard that I get to watch you get groped by a young Felicity Jones.”

“This film is not good,” Aziraphale said. “You have been warned.”

“Oh I know. Sixteen percent on Rotten Tomatoes. I’m not here for quality. I’m here to watch you rend your garments and cry to the heavens. I’ve read the play. I am prepared,” Crowley said as he pressed play.

Aziraphale sighed and took a deep drink. “I will mock you mercilessly when we watch your action film.”

“I expect nothing less,” Crowley said, smiling into the rim of his glass.

* * *

Transcript of _Cineflails Episode 212: A Snake in the Grass_

_Release date May 31, 2021_

Mary: Welcome to Cineflails, I’m Mary— 

Jackson: And this is Jackson— 

Pedro: And I’m Pedro.

Mary: And we meet with the stars from our favorite love-to-hate movies from the last twenty years. Today we have Anthony Crowley from _Agent Cobra_.

Pedro: A snake in the grass!!

Anthony: That was the tagline for the third movie actually…

Jackson: [overlapping] I’m going to be real with you I did not like these movies

Mary: Jackson, you’ve got to stop saying that to the guests.

Jackson: What? I’m allowed to have an opinion about an action movie. Too many guns and too much heteronormativity

Anthony: To be fair there were a lot of guns.

Mary: The car though? You had to like the car.

Jackson: Do you even know me? Why would I like the car?

Pedro: It was a pretty sexy car.

Mary: Is it true you bought the car after filming?

Anthony: Yeah, actually, I— 

Jackson: I want to talk to Anthony about his new show.

Mary: South Downs!

Pedro: Oh yeah South Downs!

Anthony: Ah, I can’t say much.

Jackson: That has Aziraphale Fell in it too.

Mary: God, isn’t he the one from _Pinafores and Pinstripes_ with the see-through trousers scene?

Jackson: YES.

Anthony: What? 

Jackson: _Ohmygod_. I wore out that DVD. Mr. Fell, thank you for my gay rights.

Anthony: Oh, I haven’t...

Pedro: Do you think that was his actual ass in that or do you think they used a stand-in?

Jackson: I will die if they used a stand-in. You’re ruining my childhood, Pedro. Anthony, do you know?

Anthony: Uh… I havenae discussed it with him. We don’t really- 

Mary: Why would they use a stand-in? It was just wet trousers? He wasn't naked. 

Pedro: Maybe they wanted pert glutes. Maybe his glutes just weren’t pert enough.

Jackson: Excuse me. Aziraphale Fell’s glutes were _so_ pert. Colin Firth didn’t have a stand in when HE was soaking wet, and a young Aziraphale Fell had at least as much going for him as a young Colin Firth.

Pedro: That’s true. 

Jackson: Honest opinion, Anthony, who looked better soaking wet, a young Aziraphale Fell or a young Colin Firth?

Mary: Oh my God, dude, you can’t ask him that. He’s not-

Jackson: Okay, okay. Different question. Anthony, with all your on-screen violence experience, who would win in a fight, a young Aziraphale Fell or a young Colin Firth?

Anthony: D’ye mean...a fist fight?

Mary: How about a swordfight?

Anthony: Uh…I dinnae... I think Aziraphale would- 

Jackson: Well, you heard it here first! Anthony Crowley says his costar could take Colin Firth in a fight - Mr. Firth, if you’re listening….

Anthony: Hang on…

[Laughter. Crosstalk, unintelligible.]

Pedro: We should ask Mr. Fell to weigh in - Anthony, do you think we could get him on the show?

Anthony: Um...

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to fyre for the scotspick <3
> 
> CW for brief crowley/oc in the last section and also some sex repulsion.

* * *

Lady Winthrop carefully set down her cup of tea. Her crimson hair shone in the afternoon light pouring in through the window. Fiery. Almost a challenge.

Miss Abigail Hadley set down her own cup of tea with an answering clink in its saucer. 

“There are many eligible bachelors in Brighton, Miss Hadley. Your father brought you here to experience the society you so often missed living in the country when your mother was ill—”

“My father,” Miss Hadley said through gritted teeth, “brought me here to make arrangements for the marriage to the man I love.”

“You cannot honestly mean to marry _Richard_ Cole. He is the son of a tradesman. Surely your father must have some objection.”

“I understand you were close to my mother, Lady Winthrop, but that does not mean you can take her place in my esteem. My choices are my own. Thank you for the invitation. I believe I will take my leave.”

Abigail rose to her feet and swept from the room, knocking into the table and rattling the teacups as she went. The AD called cut and Carmine relaxed in her seat.

“My, my, Pepper, you are fun to spar with.”

Pepper came back onto set with a huge grin and offered Carmine a high five. The older actress looked perplexed as she received it.

Aziraphale knocked arms with Crowley where they were stood off set watching the scene. They were working through most of the scenes on the Winthrop drawing room set today.

“What are you hitting me for?” Crowley asked, nudging him back. 

“I’m not _hitting_ you,” Aziraphale hissed. 

Their costumes today were their formal attire meant for the dinner party Lady Winthrop was hosting. The double breasted buttons on the coat Aziraphale wore suited his broad chest. He had a bit of a stomach, evidence of his preference for food and wine and leisure, but it suited him. He looked inviting. Like if he folded you in his arms you’d feel very safe, and very warm.

Cozy as a couch, Crowley thought wryly.

Except it wasn’t just cozy it was also...sturdy. Strong perhaps. Flipping through the meagre thesaurus in his head, Crowley struggled to find the right word and settled on good. He looked good.

“I was _trying_ to get your attention so I could say that I thought that scene went very well,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley returned his gaze to Aziraphale’s face and smiled at his cross expression. 

“No, yeah. It went well. Didn't know success brought out violence in you."

"You are an insufferable codswallop," aziraphale said. When he got particularly irritated his nostrils flared in and out.

"Codswallop?" Crowley repeated, delighted to watch Aziraphale work himself into a lather over something so small. "I don't think you're using that word right."

"Quiet on set!" the AD called, shooting them a look.

"You got me in trouble," Aziraphale hissed.

"You only have yourself to blame," Crowley replied, happily trotting off to dig up some water as the scene reset for the dinner party.

Pepper appeared at his elbow. Her hair was impeccable and her eyes were piercing. Crowley thought it was all very on purpose.

"You and Azi are getting on well."

Crowley took far too long to place _Azi_. When he did, it just seemed wrong. Who called Aziraphale _Azi_? Name like that deserved to be said in all its glory.

"Um, yeah. He’s a good bloke."

Pepper hummed and rustled up a reusable pink water bottle from behind the catering table. She flicked open the lid to drink deeply. "You've been pretty good too," she admitted.

"Oh, thats—”

"Don't let it go to your head. " she said but there was a small smile about her mouth as she replaced her water bottle. "See you on set."

Crowley finished his water and tried very hard to not let it go to his head.

* * *

Aziraphale glanced up from his book as the door to his dressing room opened. He knew he was early for his call time, but he could read his novel just as well in a dressing room as well as in his flat. He liked a little extra time in the studio to feel the energy of the place. It settled him.

“I brought you your tea,” Anathema said as she pushed inside, a paper cup in hand. Newt trailed behind her and took a seat on the small couch in the corner. Anathema functioned as Aziraphale’s personal assistant, sometimes his second mind. Newt was...Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure. Anathema’s personal assistant perhaps. He was around and he was generally useful so Aziraphale didn’t question it.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said politely as he took the cup and set aside his book. Anathema pulled her tablet out of seemingly nowhere and began to go over his schedule. It was their daily ritual even if Aziraphale knew the shooting schedule because he was a responsible, respectful actor.

“Today we have scenes 3.4 and 3.5. You’ll mostly be with Warlock and Anthony—Crowley,” Anathema corrected herself. “Which, honestly, I’m surprised he’s not here already.”

Aziraphale removed the lid from his tea and blew across the top, enjoying the smell of lemon and black tea. “He doesn’t have the same penchant for arriving early that I do.”

“I just thought that might change since he’s your shadow these days,” Anathema said, pulling something up on her tablet. “Oh, I also brought the crossword.”

She dug around in her bag and pulled out the paper. Tossing it onto the counter beside him, she said, “Looks like an easy one today.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Aziraphale replied, setting aside his tea in favor of the crossword.

“There was a very small buzz about that podcast Anthony—Crowley was on,” Anathema said. “All good. Mostly about _Pinafores and Pinstripes_. A little bit of a renaissance there it seems.”

“I do hope that the Twittersphere has been kind to Crowley about the whole thing. That podcast wasn’t a very nice return to the public eye,” Aziraphale said.

Anathema raised her eyebrows and smirked, an expression that Aziraphale didn’t like nor care to decipher. “Most of the people who listened were either fans of the podcast or fans of you and said his floundering was, I quote, ‘cute.’”

“It was a bit cute, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said idly just as the door pushed open, revealing the man himself.

“Speak of the devil,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s mouth turned down in that comical way of his as he brandished a white bakery box. “Oh, I...sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“No, of course not. We were just discussing that podcast you were on,” Aziraphale said. “Come in.”

Crowley groaned and dropped the box on the coffee table beside Newt’s knees. “That awful thing? Are we still talking about that?”

“It wasn’t _awful_ ,” Aziraphale said.

“It was dire,” Crowley said, bouncing on his feet. “Shouldnae have let them go on about you for so long.”

“I don’t know about that. It was a lovely ego boost,” Aziraphale said. Crowley turned a delightful shade of red. “I can’t say my bum holds the same charms it did back when I was in my twenties but it was nice to be admired.”

“Och. It’s not that bad. Better than mine. Twitter calls me a flat ass. You’ve got something good going on at least. Nothing wrong with a bit of padding.”

Aziraphale snorted and asked, “Do you know what this would be? _Water slides off of it_.”

Crowley drew up close and placed his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair to peer at the crossword puzzle. He smelled of synthetic almond-- _hotel soap_ , Aziraphale’s mind provided--and Aziraphale could feel the heat of his arm almost painfully through the back of his shirt.

“Aye, that’s uh…” Crowley snapped his fingers as if searching for something. “Ducks.”

Aziraphale cocked his head and gave the paper a sideways look. “I suppose that could work.”

“Nah, I’m right,” Crowley said, straightening up. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You are far too full of yourself.”

Crowley grinned, happy and not-self conscious in the least, before disappearing through the door.

Newt and Anathema exchanged a long look. One of those looks that made Aziraphale wonder if they’d developed some sort of PA telepathy.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, not sure he was going to like the answer.

"Well," Newt began. "Some of the PAs have started to joke around about whether or not a romantic scene between you and Crowley will need a reshoot."

"What?"

"He always bungles the first take," Newt explained. "There’s a betting pool going on about the first kiss."

Aziraphales face flamed. "That’s unprofessional."

"You just...that’s flirting. You’re flirting,” Newt insisted.

Anathema’s mouth quirked in a very _I told you so_ manner.

“It’s perfectly normal to tease your friends,” Aziraphale said, not liking the way his heart was beating. Hard and fast and almost painful.

“Straight men don’t compliment each other’s butts!” Newt insisted. 

“Well, you should!” Aziraphale insisted back.

“Anathema,” Newt pleaded and Anathema threw up her hands.

“Aziraphale told me not to speculate on other people’s sexuality and he’s right so I won’t.” 

Aziraphale sighed, set aside the paper, and went to open the bakery box. It was filled with chelsea buns from the baker he had mentioned to Crowley that he wanted to try. Because of course it was.

* * *

“Let’s go get drinks,” Pepper announced as they paraded their way down the studio corridor and out into the night.

Aziraphale found that Pepper rarely said anything. She announced or demanded or decreed. Everyone else was along for the ride.

Warlock shrugged on his hoodie and then shrugged in general. “Alright.”

Carmine looked over the group and scoffed. “Thanks for the invite but no. I’ve got to get home and call my husband.”

Grinning, Crowley turned to Aziraphale. 

“No,” Aziraphale warned. “Don’t look at me like that. We discussed this.”

“What? If we’re in a big enough group, no one will notice.”

“Notice what?” Warlock asked. 

“Aziraphale’s worried his fame will draw unwanted attention,” Crowley cooed, making Pepper snort.

“Got a pretty big head there, old man.”

“Crowley is misrepresenting our conversation,” Aziraphale said as he shot Crowley a harsh look. 

“Am I?” Crowley replied with a smirk in Aziraphale’s general direction.

“Fine,” Aziraphale said with a huff. “One drink.”

Pepper whooped as Adam appeared out of nowhere. “Where are we going?”

“Drinks,” Pepper said, slinging her arm around his shoulders like they were old friends. “Crowley’s only invited if he doesn’t puke on my shoes.”

“That was _food poisoning_.”

Pepper ignored him.

“Nice. I know just the place,” Adam said.

The “place” turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall pub within walking distance of Aziraphale’s flat so he could hardly complain. It was the sort of place with tucked-in booths where everything was either dim or bathed in a reddish light. 

The children—they weren’t children but Aziraphale struggled to think of them as anything other than children as they were nearly two decades younger than him—ordered pints and Aziraphale ordered something that tried to be a cabernet sauvignon. 

“This is nice,” Crowley said as he slid into the booth beside Aziraphale. They watched their coworkers bicker by the bar and Aziraphale glanced at Crowley as he took a drink. The long line of his throat worked as he swallowed and Aziraphale tore his gaze away. He’d been doing a very admirable job not thinking of Crowley as a viable option because Crowley was straight, but sometimes certain thoughts slipped in because Crowley _was_ nice to look at. Certainly.

“What, pray tell, is so nice about a dingy bar in the corner of Bristol?”

“Well,” Crowley said, “First, I like seeing that pinched look on your face. You look downright peeved. Second, the younger crowd looks happy. S’good for bonding.”

Aziraphale scoffed and ignored the little warm feeling in his chest. “I thought we were here so you could pick up women, my dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not so fussed about that. Leah gave me her number.”

Aziraphale blinked and the warm feeling in his chest snuffed as quick as a candle being blown out at a birthday party. “Leah...costuming Leah?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “We have a date on Saturday.”

“Isn’t that...a conflict of interest?”

“I don’t see why. She’s finished working on the project. The costumes are finished. Should be fine really,” Crowley said easily as he took another drink. 

“You’re probably right,” Aziraphale said and he took a deeper drink of his terrible wine than he should have.

“What’s say we hustle these kids at pool?”

Pepper was exclaiming in the corner over the beat up pool table and pressing cues into people’s hands. 

“Please. There is no way one earth you could convince anyone you’re bad at pool,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley rolled his tongue behind his teeth, an absolutely _unfair_ expression that Aziraphale could not believe he had not seen Crowley deploy before. “That’s how _hustling_ works. We go play and you trounce me so everyone _thinks_ I’m bad at pool.”

“I think every single one of those millennials will know exactly what you’re up to,” Aziraphale pointed out. “All you need is a leather jacket and sunglasses and you’d look like you’re _trying_ to be a hustler.”

“That’s because I’m very cool.”

“That’s the exact opposite of what I’m trying to say,” Aziraphale grumbled.

Crowley kicked at his feet. “C’mon. Have a bit of fun. You’re all upstanding and shite. Live a little.”

“You are a bad influence on me,” Aziraphale said, shooing him out of the booth and following him to the pool table.

Then Crowley began to unbutton his shirt. 

There are moments in life where one thinks they are still abed, still caught in a dreamscape where the fantastical is occurring right before one’s very eyes. Watching Crowley peel off his black button down to reveal a thin grey cotton t-shirt was akin to watching a top hat sprout legs and begin singing chim-chim-che-ree. 

Crowley must have caught him looking because he tossed aside his shirt and rolled his shoulders. “Need full range of motion for billiards.” 

Then he stretched his hands above his head which did something entirely indecent in the belly region of his shirt involving a patch of ginger hair and the tiniest tummy roll in existence. Aziraphale turned away to look at Pepper instead. 

“I believe Crowley and I would like to play the next game,” he said politely, scrubbing his mind of thoughts of body hair and thin biceps.

“You can play this one,” Pepper said, handing off her cue. “No one can decide teams anyway. You can play while they all figure it out.”

She leaned against the wall and rescued her beer from the window sill. Aziraphale turned back to Crowley who was negotiating his own cue from the rack on the wall. 

Aziraphale broke and it became very evident that Crowley was not good at pool. 

“I used to play!” he insisted as he knocked the cue ball into the corner pocket for the third time.

“When you _used to play_ ,” Aziraphale said, “were any good?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “It’s been a few years.”

Aziraphale sank the eight ball and said, “Whatever you say, my dear.”

“God, you guys are fun to watch,” Pepper said, reminding Aziraphale that he wasn’t here alone with Crowley no matter how empty the bar was his castmates were here. His director was here.

“It’s because I’m so easy on the eyes,” Crowley said, sprawling across the pool table like a jazz singer might lay across a piano.

Pepper rolled her eyes and gave Crowley’s calf a friendly kick. “Your trousers are too tight.”

“Very low cut shirts,” Wensleydale added.

Crowley preened under the attention. The absolute buffoon.

Warlock, true to form, sullenly interjected, “I don’t know why Aziraphale puts up with you. I’d kick you to the curb.”

“I’m the slutty one and Aziraphale’s the pretty one. We complete each other,” Crowley said easily before shooting Aziraphale a wink.

Without any other recourse, Aziraphale dropped into a chair by the billiards table as the rest of the cast laughed and teased each other. Adam approached him and came to a stop by his elbow.

“Crowley’s a bit dense,” Adam said quietly.

Aziraphale looked up at him and, not for the first time, had the oddest sense that their director seemed very, very old behind his pretty boy appearance. “Pardon?”

“Just, thanks for being a good friend to Crowley. He needed one I think,” Adam said before wandering off.

Aziraphale scrubbed a hand over his face before standing, taking a final look at the rest of the cast, and slipping out of the bar. 

* * *

Crowley had not been on a date in quite some time and Leah seemed like a nice enough woman. Pretty brown hair, pretty brown eyes. Not too young. Kind. She’d also asked _him_ out so he didn’t have to feel like a creep about it.

She lived in Bristol so she chose the restaurant. It was the sort of place with a tasting menu and as they sat down, Leah jumped in and asked him about his childhood. 

“Um. Grew up in Glasgow. It was alright. You?”

She started chattering about Bristol and Bath and that was a far sight better than having to talk about his childhood so he listened and took little bites off little plates with little servings of foods he hadn’t eaten in a good two decades. It was the fancy sort of status food that made you think you were rich, but didn’t have any substance. 

Conversation faded until Leah brought up the fact that she played guitar. It turned out she liked folk, but the oldies. Crowley agreed, thinking somewhat miserably of the vinyl collection he sold when money started getting tight. 

It wasn’t the best date, but it wasn’t the worst. Crowley reasoned that he was somewhat out of practice and when they split the check, he offered to walk her home after she mentioned it was only a couple blocks.

At her door she looked up at him and it seemed the thing to do was lean in and kiss her. To Crowley, kissing had always been something that required a great deal of focus. If he didn’t focus, the reality of kissing crept in. It was two mouths smooshing together. There was a tongue in there. And what was a tongue but a great big muscle with extra germs involved? So he had to focus on what he was doing and the fact that it felt sort of nice really.

Leah made a small noise against his mouth and fisted her hands in his jacket to pull him closer. He braced one hand on the door behind her and broke the kiss. 

“I know it’s a bit…” She grimaced playfully and tugged on his jacket. “But would you want to come inside? You don’t have to.”

Crowley thought of the Hand Touch and the hard-on and the fact that Leah was nice. They’d probably go on another date so it wouldn’t be _terrible_ of him to take advantage of the offer. He ducked his head and kissed her again. 

“Yeah, sure. That sounds nice.”

They ended up horizontal on the couch and Crowley thought very hard about the right places to put his hands and not about tongues at all. Hands snuck into all the good places and even though Crowley was thinking _very hard_ about things, he remained embarrassingly, determinedly _not hard_. Sometimes he had a bit of trouble in that area, especially when he tried to hook-up in the middle of filming. A stress response he always thought.

Leah broke their kiss and pushed him off of her, tugging down her skirt and grunting in frustration.

“Sorry,” Crowley said. The word flopped out between them uselessly.

She sighed and looked away. “It’s fine. I sort of thought you might be...but the kissing was good so I thought I’d go for it. You’re really fit and it’s been a while so...”

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what she meant so he apologized again. “We could try something else?”

“Mood’s officially killed, sorry,” she said.

“I’m going to guess you don’t want to do this again?”

She gave him an odd look. “Thanks for the offer but no.”

He left her flat with a mighty sigh and withdrew his phone from his pocket. It was only nine-thirty. A complete disaster. Without much thought, he dialed Aziraphale.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out on a date?” Aziraphale asked when he answered.

“Went to pot,” Crowley replied as he started to walk home. He probably needed to get a taxi.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to it,” Aziraphale said and he sounded genuinely sorry.

“I mean it’s not as if I was pining after this girl. I’ll be fine. It wouldae been nice to get a second date, but you know, it happens,” Crowley said. Or maybe he would walk home. It was a nice night. He could talk to Aziraphale a bit longer.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley heard a soft shuffling in the background like Aziraphale was in bed. He probably was. Reading or something. Maybe he was wearing those tiny glasses looking like a cartoon. He probably wore some Dickensian sleeping cap to bed.

“Ah, I dunno. We went back to hers—”

“Goodness, you move fast.”

“It was her suggestion!” Crowley protested.

“Alright,” Aziraphale conceded.

“And it didn’t go well.”

Crowley didn’t think he could admit to being unable to get a hard-on if someone paid him. 

“Sexual incompatibility,” Crowley said into the silence.

“Did your whips and chains scare her off?” Aziraphale asked, startling a laugh out of him.

“It was actually the tentacles in my trousers,” he said and that got Aziraphale to laugh too. This was so much better than stilted conversation over tapas and uncomfortable kissing. Maybe he needed to do what women did when they got older and invest in an expensive sex toy and make more friends.

“You’ll have to inform the intimacy coordinator when we get to the sex scene in episode five,” Aziraphale said. “They’ll need to make you something special to tie those down.”

Crowley bit down a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I can retract them into my body.”

“Perfect. No issues then.”

“No issues at all.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moving right along
> 
> So, quick notes: I don't know much about making TV or movies so I'm making a lot of this up based on what I've seen/read and what I know from a lot of theater experience. However, I do know some stuff about shooting sex scenes which involves (if the production is on the up and up) closed sets and intimacy coordinators. Intimacy coordinators basically work closely with actors to work through the minutiae of intimate scenes, blocking/hand placement, amount of nudity, strapping down dicks, covering nipples, etc. I honestly doubt it works how I've represented it here for a kissing scene but please give me some free reign for the sake of fiction. It is fun.
> 
> Also! I continue to try to make this multimedia experience better for everyone and am now including frames for the images included so they look less like hideous white expanses on screens. I am pleased and hope you are as well.

Crowley brushed his teeth and spat in the sink. The steam was disappearing from the edges of the bathroom mirror as he pushed the damp flop of his fringe from his face. Rinsing the remnants of toothpaste down the drain, he appreciated the fact that this was _his_ bathroom now. Not a hotel bathroom. _His_. Sure it was some flat for lease but it had multiple rooms and it didn't smell of industrial cleaner and he was able to leave his little sideburn station beside the sink without it getting reorganized every day by housekeeping.

He was settling in for the eight weeks of principal photography in Bristol. A lot of the other cast members flew home on the weekends but Crowley didn’t exactly need to go back to Tracy and Shadwell and his downstairs neighbor was watering his plant in exchange for future dog sitting duty. Aziraphale didn’t go home either. He said he preferred to keep travel to a minimum. It was nice to have someone else to spend time with on days off.

He wandered into his bedroom and pulled out his phone. 

Crowley frowned at his phone. George was Aziraphale’s ex, wasn’t he? They stayed in touch? Crowley didn’t stay in touch with any of his exes, but that was because most of his relationships didn’t last longer than six months. 

Crowley realized he’d been frowning at his phone and sent Aziraphale a response. Tempting Aziraphale with takeaway sushi and his choice of movie would probably do the trick.

It absolutely did.

* * *

“I’ve got your tuna, the chef’s special, and the pickled gourd you like. I bought wine but I know you probably brought something because you’re a snob and I hate you,” Crowley said as he took Aziraphale’s coat and hung it in the closet.

Aziraphale handed him a bottle of pinot. “Are you in the habit of inviting all the people you hate to your housewarming get-togethers?”

Crowley snatched the bottle of wine and went into the kitchen to rustle up the opener. “You’re a special case.”

Aziraphale smiled placidly as he looked around, wandering the small flat. He hummed over the abstract art print in the hall and arched a brow at the glass vase on the sideboard in the dining room as he passed through it to follow Crowley into the kitchen. “Bit boring, isn’t it?”

“At least I didn’t request it look like my nana’s wardrobe,” Crowley shot back. He quickly popped the cork and poured two glasses. 

“I like for things to be cozy,” Aziraphale sniffed, snatching a glass from Crowley and swanning to the dining table.

“There’s cozy and then there’s _ancient and anxiety inducing_.”

“See, I think barren expanses of nothing with _one_ picture on the wall is rather anxiety inducing,” Aziraphale countered.

“I’ve got a plant!” Crowley protested, flapping his arm in the direction of the kitchen where said plant was germinating on the window sill. Sure, the apartment was an expanse of black and white and silver, probably an exact replica of every other unit in the building. A temporary home but a home nonetheless.

Aziraphale took a sip of his wine, set it aside, and began to open the takeaway containers. “And I’m sure it’s a lovely plant.”

Crowley flopped into a chair, kicking up his foot onto the seat of another, and sipped at his own wine. It was good which was unsurprising. Aziraphale always brought good wine. 

“How was George?” Crowley asked once the sushi was out and the chopsticks were distributed.

Aziraphale swallowed the bite of tuna nigiri in his mouth. “Pardon?” 

“George. Your ex. You said you were skyping.”

Aziraphale’s forehead crinkled, one little line appearing between his eyebrows. “Yes. He is quite well. We hadn’t spoken in some time, but he wanted to let me know he is adopting a little girl with his new partner. I’m very glad for him.”

“That’s…” Crowley set aside his chopsticks and searched for something appropriate to say. He came up blank. 

“If you’re concerned I’m having some crisis, please don’t be. You’re getting all constipated about the face and you really needn’t,” Aziraphale said. “You must have an ex or two that you have a nice friendly relationship with.”

Crowley frowned and snatched an edamame pod, pushing out the beans more to have something to do with his hands than out of a desire to eat them. “I lived with Rachael about fifteen years ago. She was a model so we were both traveling so much that it didnae really feel like living together really but it ended because of that. The travel. I think we’re friends still. Even if we don’t talk much. She invited me to her wedding about five years ago even if I couldn’t go.”

“See,” Aziraphale said with a pointed gesture of his chopsticks. “It’s not all heartbreak.”

“Do you have any of those though?”

“Any of what?”

“Break ups like that? With the heartbreak,” Crowley said. He pushed aside his plate. His stomach felt oddly uneasy.

“A few,” Aziraphale said. “You?”

Crowley waved his chopstick back and forth. “Nah, I asked first. You cannae turn it back on me.”

Aziraphale laughed and said, “Right well, my first boyfriend wasn’t out and I was very young. We were in college at the time and I didn’t understand why he’d want to be in the closet at all. I was a bit of an ass about it really, but I loved him. A great deal. And when we broke up, I was heartbroken about it.”

“What was his name?” Crowley asked.

“I am not going to _gossip_ ,” Aziraphale said, a bit playful. “Now you owe me a story I think.”

Crowley frowned. He didn’t have a lot of terrible break up stories. “I had just signed for Agent Cobra and my best friend at the time, Jen, she I think thought we were more than we were and we got in this big fight about my career and what I wanted out of life and she told me she was in love with me and I didn’t know how what to say and she left and never spoke to me again.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Aziraphale said, placing his hand over Crowley’s. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“I drowned my sorrows in money, booze and ecstasy,” Crowley said with a wry and humorless laugh. “Have you done ecstasy? Real bang up drug.”

Aziraphale laughed. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I smoked a bit of marijuana in my day but didn’t get any further than that.”

“Oh I can just picture it. You with a joint in your hand passing it down the line, rhapsodizing about what, oh, Oscar Wilde or Shakespeare. Saying some philosophical shite,” Crowley said, words washed away into laughter.

“Like you were such a pleasure high?” Aziraphale challenged. “I bet you lazed around listening to awful music and saying it spoke to your soul.”

"I listened to the Velvet Underground and it was transformative," Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his sushi. "Ah yes, bebop."

Crowley spluttered. "You cannae call the Velvet Underground _bebop_ …"

Aziraphale glanced at him and it was particularly mischievous.

"Bastard."

"Yes, yes, as you've said. You must get more creative with your insults or I’ll think you don't mean them at all," Aziraphale said blithely, snatching one of Crowley’s inarizushi.

Overcome for a moment by a sense of intense affection for this friend he didn't expect to have, Crowley said, "I don’t really mean it."

Aziraphale froze, sushi in his mouth.

"Well, I do mean it. But affectionately." Something weird was happening. The tone of the interaction was changing. Crowley was hot all over. "I just...I like you. You know I like you, right? Bastard and all?"

Aziraphale swallowed hard and took a sip of his wine. "Yes, I'm quite aware. You are a very good friend to me, my dear."

Had he made Aziraphale uncomfortable? Aziraphale seemed uncomfortable. Red in the face and looking away. He must have been because he changed the subject. “So,” he said, a little loud. “Are you nervous for tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow?” Crowley asked.

“You were quite worked up over the hand touch scene and this is a step above that. The first kiss. I thought you’d be in a tizzy.”

Crowley paused for a moment. “The kiss is tomorrow?”

“Yes. The kiss is tomorrow.”

“I thought it was next Thursday?”

Aziraphale scrubbed a hand over his face. “Crowley, it is tomorrow.”

Crowley considered the fact that he wasn’t freaking out. The intimacy coordinator, a nice redhead named Lydia, had walked them through the placement of their hands and knees and everything but the _kissing_ itself. Crowley now knew that the boner-that-shall-not-be-thought-of was a weird one-off probably caused by a lack of human contact. He touched people a lot more now. Especially Aziraphale. They were in each other’s space a great deal more and there were no surprises to be had. 

“I honestly thought your housewarming was all a ruse to have me come over and hold your hand through your crisis,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley said as he stood to pick up the empty takeaway containers, “But I wouldn't say no to a little hand holding if that's what you’re after. It comforts me.”

Aziraphale heaved a put-upon sigh and followed after him into the kitchen to help him clean. “I hate to think what you’ll be like before the sex scene. Insufferable.”

“It’s just a little—” Crowley broke off and swirled his hips. “Naked rubbing. I can naked rub. Strip off and I’ll naked rub you right now.”

Aziraphale fumbled an empty sushi container into the sink and apologized as he tried to turn on the water. Crowley knocked his hands away. “You’re a guest. No cleaning for guests.”

Pouring himself more wine after retreating to the other side of the kitchen, Aziraphale said, “This is a very different tune than the man who couldn’t sleep due to anxiety over a simple _touch_ four weeks ago.”

Crowley shrugged and shut off the tap. “Ach. I’ve gotten pretty comfortable. With the cast. With you. It doesn’t feel like a big deal anymore. I think I was worried that it...I’m going to sound like a dafty, but I was worried that it being gay would make it hard for me but it’s not been and that’s a lot to do with working with you and Adam and everyone else.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, holding his glass up in a small toast. 

“I don’t think it has anything to do with me,” Crowley replied, swinging out of the kitchen and into the living room. “What do you want to watch?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said as he followed after him. “Why don’t you pick?”

“I said you could and I won’t go back on my word.”

Aziraphale shook his head affectionately and took the remote when Crowley tossed it his way. 

They ended up watching _Sabrina_ , a film Crowley had never seen. He’d never gone much in for black and white, but Aziraphale called it a romantic classic and Crowley had promised he could choose.

If he teared up a little at the end, Aziraphale didn’t comment.

* * *

“Are you guys ready for The Big Scene?” Pepper cooed as she plopped into a chair at their table. They were on lunch break after a long morning of scenes on the Hadley set, mostly work between him and Pepper. They’d started getting along a lot better now that her icy demeanor had thawed somewhat. She liked to poke and prod at him in between takes and call him an _old man_.

Crowley was just glad she was no longer threatening to punch him.

“The kiss?” Crowley asked after he swallowed his bite of sandwich.

“No, your letter writing scene,” Pepper shot back with a scoff before tearing into her food with abandon. 

Patting him gently on the forearm, Aziraphale said, “Crowley told him he’s quite confident it will go swimmingly.”

“I didnae say _swimmingly-”_

Aziraphale winked at him, effectively shutting him up and doing something strange to his brain. He took another bite of his sandwich.

They’d been peeled out of their costumes for lunch and Aziraphale was in one of his tight white shirts that he seemed to wander around in when not in costume. There was something oddly obscene about seeing Aziraphale in short sleeves. Everywhere else in the world Aziraphale wore jumpers and coats and long-sleeved button downs, but this was just a soft cotton white t-shirt, bare arms entirely exposed. Because Aziraphale was so very blond, Crowley had thought he’d be pale all over but his forearms were dusted in freckles. 

“Your guys’ chemistry has been-” Pepper broke off and made a low whistling noise- “off the charts. Better than most of the heterosexual garbage that’s on TV these days. I think it helps that you’re both-”

“I think we best go get ready,” Aziraphale said loudly. “It’s nearly that time.”

Crowley looked at the clock on the wall with a frown and found that Aziraphale was unfortunately very right. He groaned and stood. “I suppose I have to give them time to get me into those trousers. Fifteen minutes at least.”

“Yes, you do have trouble with those,” Aziraphale said as they stood and said goodbye to Pepper.

Crowley thought the nerves would finally hit as he got back in costume, as he had his make-up retouched, as his hair was re-fluffed, but they never did. Maybe it was Aziraphale being there, looking sturdy and safe or maybe Crowley had finally put aside whatever worries he’d had over homophobia being an issue, but he felt calm. They’d walked through it with Lydia. He would cross the room, back Aziraphale up against the desk, cup his cheek, press his knee between Aziraphale’s legs, grab his hip, then kiss him. Aziraphale would put his hands on Crowley’s chest. Three beat kiss. Then the rest of the scene performed from that position. Words exchanged, love professed. 

They took their marks and the scene began.

It was the same rhythm he always fell into with Aziraphale. That chemistry. An easy dance. He felt like a good actor when he performed with him. It was intoxicating.

“You know this is not about their marriage,” John said desperately. “There is no cause for my desire to see you other than my own.”

William looked away, eyes darting towards the door, expression betraying his desire to escape.

“You must have known how I felt. I havenae hidden it from you. Not since-not since I began to believe the sentiment was shared.”

William shook his head. His eyes were shining. “John. Mr. Hadley. You are mistaken. It is not done.”

“I dinnae _care_ what is done. I care about what is in my heart and that is you.”

Tears spilled from William’s eyes and Crowley was across the room in an instant, pushing William back until his hip hit the desk. Just like Lydia had walked through it with them, he cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, looked him in the eye, and kissed him.

It was different than he expected. Mostly because the first thing he thought of was ham. He had eaten a ham sandwich for lunch. Had Aziraphale eaten the ham or the turkey? His entire brain became a white static filled with dancing pink hams. Bohemian Rhapsody began to play charmingly as if on kazoo.

A call for cut sliced through the shocking expanse of hams and Crowley stumbled back. 

"Sorry," he said immediately. To everyone. To no one.

Aziraphale gripped his wrist. There were still tear tracks on his cheeks. "Are you alright?"

"Um…"

"Crowley!"

That was Adam. Crowley turned away from Aziraphale’s concerned expression.

"What are you thinking about right now?"

Crowley hesitated, searching for something that wasn't Queen songs and dancing hams.

Adam changed tack. "What's _John_ thinking about?"

He had a better answer for that. "William."

"What about William?"

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale who gave him a supportive smile. 

"Wanting him, I suppose. Wanting him beyond reason."

"Have you ever wanted anyone like that?"

"What?"

"Wanted someone to the point where even when you knew it wasn't a good idea you couldn't hold back?"

Crowley rifled through his head but it was full of ham.

Adam stared at him as if waiting for an answer and when he didn't give one, Adam said, “Let’s take it from the top.”

Crowley nodded tightly. He wasn’t sure if he had ruined a scene quite so spectacularly since he had first started in the business when he was 17. Even then he had been alright because people knew he was young and inexperienced. Right now, he _needed_ to be good. This was his chance to be better. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, catching his hand. Aziraphale’s hands were always so bloody soft. He’d once told Crowley he got manicures. He’d said _you really should invest in self-care, my dear._

Bewildered, Crowley paused as their fingers caught. 

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, eyes searching his face. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Aye, I know,” Crowley said.

They took it from the top.

Crowley was certain he finished the scene because he ended up across the room with Aziraphale’s hands on his chest. 

"Was it better?" he asked quietly, heart sinking.

Aziraphale shook his head. "You need to relax."

He uncurled his hands from Crowley's coat where they were fisted in playacted passion and laid then flat on his chest. They were warm through the fabric, gentle. 

"Breathe," Aziraphale said. "In."

Crowley's chest expanded.

"Out."

It fell.

Adam broke through the quiet of their breathing by calling out, "I'm closing the set for this scene. Tell everyone to leave. This is what we are doing the rest of the day."

Crowley stepped away from Aziraphale. His head buzzed. His chest ached.

The production assistant stepped forward and said, "Adam, we have another scene to film after—"

"Move the scene," he said with very little care. "Crowley and Aziraphale, take fifteen. Separate if you wouldn't mind. I know you enjoy each other's company but just for today I think it would help to give each other...breathing room."

* * *

Crowley paced back and forth in his dressing room and tried to replay everything that had just happened. It was bad. It was miserable. He'd fucked up.

He was usually good at kissing scenes. He had a certain look that got him cast as a love interest often enough even on short spots on soaps so he'd kissed loads of people. He went through the blocking in his head and came up to the kiss and it all got staticky.

Was it that he and Aziraphale were such good friends? He hadn't ever done an on screen kiss with a friend. He’d been so certain he was over the gay thing but maybe he wasn’t.

Crowley dropped into the chair and hung his head. He wanted to put his head into his hands but he couldn't because it would ruin his makeup.

"Can I come in?"

That was Adam.

"Sure," Crowley said with the sort of forlorn resignation reserved for people going to the gallows. 

"We are going to take that scene again."

"I know."

"Probably a few times. So it doesn't have to be perfect on the first take."

Crowley nodded. His eyes hurt like he might cry, pricking and burning and forcing a tightening in his throat.

"Can you talk right now?"

"We’re talking, aren’t we?"

Then a pack of gum was being shoved in his face.

Crowley blinked and reared back. Adam shrugged. "I'd offer a cigarette but you're about to do a kissing scene and I’m not gonna be the one to make your breath taste bad."

Crowley took a piece of gum. It was spearmint.

"You seemed overwhelmed out there," Adam ventured once he tossed his wrapper in the bin.

"Something like that," Crowley admitted. Shifting in his seat. "I just havenae...I don't…"

Adam held up a hand. 

"You know why I cast you? In the first Agent Cobra movie there's that big kissing scene. You sweep the leading lady up in your arms and you're about to kiss her and you pause and you don't say anything but your expression, your hesitation, you're asking for her permission."

"That's nothing new. Loads of kissing scenes do that."

He fiddled with the gum wrapper in his hands.

"How often in action movies is it like that? Maybe in romance? But no. I saw that as a kid and I thought wow. That guy understands it."

"I don't think I do or otherwise I wouldn't be making an ass of myself.”

“Maybe you should pause," Adam said simply. "And ask permission."

Confused, Crowley asked, "You want me to do it like that scene in Agent Cobra?"

"I didn't say you needed permission from your scene partner,'' Adam said. "This is about asking permission from yourself. It’s ok to tell yourself that it’s...ok."

Flummoxed, Crowley looked at his feet as Adam patted him on the back before adding, “We’re going to try it again. See you on set in five.”

* * *

The next take was shite.

Crowley stepped on Aziraphale’s foot trying to pay attention to the blocking.

The following take was worse when he put his thumb up Aziraphale’s nose. 

Once the blocking smoothed out, the kisses were just...bad. When he managed to actually kiss William, every single one was a knock of teeth or an awkward head tilt. His mind kept buzzing and buzzing and he couldn't figure out what to do with his hands or his feet even though someone had literally spelled it out for him.

It was seven when Adam called it for the day.

Crowley was embarrassed and miserable and he was glad of the closed set. Fewer people to bear witness to his failure.

The worst part of it all was that he knew they would have to shoot the scene again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone who commented on the last chapter? Yes. You knew exactly where we were headed. OF COURSE we were headed here. Of course.
> 
> thanks to jb612 for helping with a bit of storycoaching/clarifying a few bits and to Fyre for once more scotpicking some of crowley's dialogue

* * *

Crowley opened the door and Aziraphale was standing there holding a canvas bag with an owl atop a pile of books imprinted on the side, the words _Whooooo loves to read?_ written in calligraphy beneath it.

"God, I am so sorry."

Aziraphale scoffed and pushed inside. "Nonsense," he said, leaving Crowley to sag against the door and feel sorry for himself. 

"I’m a bloody terrible actor and a worse friend. I’m a homophobe apparently because I can’t kiss a man," Crowley said as the door swung shut. "And I'm wasting everybody’s time. And the studio’s money."

Aziraphale set the canvas bag on Crowley’s table and gave him a no-nonsense look. "First off, you are a wonderful friend so kindly stop with that sort of talk and I don't see why you having trouble with a kissing scene makes you a _homophobe_."

Crowley tossed himself onto his couch with a groan. The cushions gave a little _oof_ of protest and settled under his weight. "Adam talked to me today. Said something miserably cryptic about giving myself permission."

"He can be very cryptic, can’t he?" Aziraphale observed, voice quiet. 

Crowley craned his neck to look at him, expecting him to say something more, but his expression was unreadable.

When Aziraphale turned back to him it was with a bottle of wine in each hand. "I have a solution. A bit old fashioned. Perhaps bulldozing the issue. But it worked for me when I kept fudging my first kissing scene. Amy Pelliteri and I got completely sloshed and snogged on her couch until I could have recognized her teeth with my tongue."

Crowley grimaced. He didn’t enjoy tongues when kissing women. If he was having trouble kissing a man—a man he liked as much as he liked Aziraphale—introducing tongues sounded like a disaster. 

"That’s disgusting."

"Crowley, I’m extremely gay. It wasnt an erotic experience by any means but it broke down whatever discomfort we had with the required intimacy. I propose we do the same."

"Ugh, fine," Crowley said, gesturing for one of the bottles Aziraphale held. His heart beat so hard he could feel it. His palms were sweating. "Give me that."

He snatched the wine from Aziraphale as he heaved himself to his feet and marched into the kitchen to dig out a bottle opener. 

"Is there a method to this or do we just drink?" he asked as he worked the corkscrew into the cork with more force than necessary. 

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale was all innocent eyes and his bow tie made him look like a school boy with the way it was perched above his argyle sweater vest and what they were about to do seemed like _debauchery._

Crowley threw the cork into the sink. It bounced about as he took a long swig straight from the neck of the bottle. 

“Like a drinking game,” Crowley explained as he tossed Aziraphale the corkscrew. “Something to pass the time so I’m not sitting here staring at your mouth like it’s a firing squad.”

Said mouth twisted and Crowley realized what he’d said was _mean_. He hadn’t meant it as a shot at Aziraphale. It was more self-deprecation. Gallows humor. 

Before he could apologize, he was pressed back against the counter, hands on his hips, Aziraphale’s body pressed against his. His first thought was, _I’m not drunk yet!_ , which was swiftly supplanted by horror when Aziraphale placed his mouth on Crowley’s neck and blew a very loud, very wet raspberry. 

Crowley shoved him off. “What the hell?”

His heart was thundering. Aziraphale smiled and then tapped his own mouth with his finger. “Are you still afraid of my mouth?”

“I’m more afraid of it!” Crowley cried, clapping his hand over the wet spot on his throat and swiping off the spit. He slapped it on Aziraphale’s bicep and wiped it off. 

Aziraphale shoved off his hand with a scowl. “Well, that’s just rude.”

"S'rude to put your mouth on a bloke's neck without permission," Crowley said, his spine doing something weird and anxious and tingly as he took a drink from the bottle.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in a way that made the tingling worsen. He moved to the counter to begin to open his own wine bottle. "I think the goal of this evening should be to have you relax. Loosen up. And in my opinion, the best course of action in such an instance is almost always a bit of laughter."

A real concern flooded Crowley. "Do you think I'm not relaxed around you?"

Aziraphale retrieved a wine glass and poured himself a hearty amount. "Of course not. I simply think that when two people are close friends and their relationship does not include a lot of physical intimacy, it can be difficult to breach the barrier of touch."

Crowley considered that and found he disagreed. "We touch all the time!"

Aziraphale wagged a finger and breezed past him into the dining room. The back of his sweater was a single block of brown, contrasting the wide argyle diamonds on the front. 

"We touch all the time for work. That is different."

"Is it though?"

"I believe so," Aziraphale said. "I think there is an inherent discomfort in breaching the unspoken contract of distance we have between us in our personal relationship."

"That's a big assumption," Crowley said sullenly, taking another drink.

"It's simply a theory," Aziraphale replied as he took a seat on the couch. "Touch my leg."

"What?"

"Go ahead." Aziraphale patted the couch beside him. "Sit close beside me and touch my knee."

Crowley's stomach did an odd thing as he dropped onto the couch. Lifting his hand, a wave of awkwardness overtook him but he refused to let Aziraphale be right so he placed it firmly on Aziraphale's knee before looking Aziraphale square in the face. 

Aziraphale’s expression was downright smug.

"Dinnae make that face," Crowley said. "I'm touching you."

"You look like you've sucked a lemon."

"Maybe I like lemons."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took his hand. Little pricks of sensation skittering up Crowley’s arm.

"I have an idea for how we can burst the bubble so to speak but it's a little silly," Aziraphale said.

"You're a little silly."

Aziraphale's eyes flashed. "Undoubtedly. But we want to be silly. If we are too serious, you'll never be able to do this kissing scene with anything but dread. So let’s consider this your _game_ to pass the time so I’m not a...what did you say? Firing squad?"

Crowley stared at where Aziraphale was holding his hand, where it still rested on Aziraphale's thigh. "Fine. What is it?"

"Do you have any spaghetti?"

Once they stood in the center of the room, the coffee table cleared away, Crowley once more looked at Aziraphale and said, "This is daft."

"I think it's a good way to break the ice," Aziraphale insisted and started the stereo with the remote.

 _Mambo No. 5_ started to play and Crowley groaned. "This is the worst thing you could have chosen."

He thought of hams and _Bohemian Rhapsody_ and wondered for a moment if he'd wandered into the recesses of his mind but as Aziraphale began to bite his lip and gyrate his hips, Crowley realized the whole thing was dreadfully real. This was happening whether he liked it or not.

"I apologize for not curating a playlist for our kissing adventures," Aziraphale retorted. "Now come here. The point is to close the distance between us in a _fun_ way. I think Lou Bega is a bit of fun."

Crowley shuffled over, grumbling, "Lou Bega can go to hell."

Aziraphale put a piece of uncooked spaghetti in his mouth and set the box on the TV stand before cucarachaing into the center of the room. He gestured for Crowley to come even closer.

"Now but the ubuh sibe ub da sbagedi ib your moub," Aziraphale said around the noodle.

Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale gestured emphatically at the other end of the spaghetti. With a huge sigh, Crowley put the spaghetti in his mouth. They were the world's worst recreation of Lady and the Tramp. 

Then Aziraphale grabbed him and started to dance. He was miserable at it, wiggling his hips and doing something weird with his elbows. The spaghetti broke, the longer half sticking out of Aziraphale's mouth.

Aziraphale took it out. "You didn't dance," he said, sounding put out.

"I don't understand the point of this," Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him another long suffering look. "To laugh, Crowley!"

Then he lunged and shoved his fingers in Crowley's sides. Instinctively, Crowley tucked his elbows down. "Aziraphale I'm not— stop that— I'm no’ ticklish."

"Boo," Aziraphale said. "Spaghetti it is then."

He placed the spaghetti back into his mouth and looked at Crowley expectantly. Crowley shuffled forward and took it into his mouth. They were barely six inches apart now.

The song changed and Aziraphale grabbed his hips and forced him to start moving. 

He ended up with his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, focused on his movements just so the bloody spaghetti wouldn't break again. It didn't work for long. Aziraphale tried to bob his head and snapped the spaghetti like a twig. Crowley ripped his half of the spaghetti out of his mouth.

"That's your fault!"

Aziraphale looked chagrined and held up the other half of the spaghetti. It had broken clean in half. 

“Where did you learn this stupid game?’ Crowley asked as he chucked his piece of spaghetti into the bin by the TV stand.

“If you must know, I went to church quite a bit as a child. Religious young people find all sorts of ways to be flirtatious.”

“No seven minutes in heaven for you then?” Crowley retorted as Aziraphale approached and placed his hands back on Crowley’s hips. The heat of them seemed to spread all the way down Crowley’s legs.

“We did that too, if I’m honest.”

“You little Christian slut.”

Aziraphale snorted and placed the spaghetti in his mouth. With only three inches of noodle left, they were chest to chest when Crowley managed to get it in his mouth. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and _Hips Don’t Lie_ came on the stereo. Before they could even begin, Crowley pulled away and put his face in his hands.

“No, absolutely not. I cannae do this,” he said. He snatched the bottle of wine from the side table and took a long drink as Aziraphale started to dance towards him. Poorly. He mimed a lasso and wagged his eyebrows, pulling himself towards Crowley. 

“Stop that," Crowley warned as he tried to dodge away.

“Come, come, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, moving forward with his hips and into Crowley’s space. “We must _burst the bubble_.”

“I’m not drunk enough for this!” Crowley cried.

“Then get drunk!” Aziraphale said and grabbed his hand to twirl him around.

“You’re no’ making it easy,” Crowley retorted with a frown that did not manage to hide a laugh.

"A-ha!" Aziraphale said with a huge grin. "I made you laugh! Do it again."

"No," Crowley said just to be contrary.

Aziraphale pushed him up against the wall and blew another raspberry on his neck. Sort of his neck, mostly his jaw.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley said, wrestling him off and finding him a bit stronger than he expected.

With no recourse other than daft childish antics, Crowley licked Aziraphales cheek. He reared back, mouth open in shock. "You licked me!"

"You spat on me first!" Crowley pushed off the wall and rubbed off the saliva on his shoulder. 

“We are going to play a normal drinking game," he said.

"But—"

"You can hold my bloody hand or some shite if youre so worried about _the bubble_ ," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "But we’ve just spat on each other so I'm thinking we’re doin’ alright."

Aziraphale cocked his head as if to say, _fair point_. "What sort of drinking game do you propose?"

That was how they ended up playing the rizla game at the dining room table, bottles almost empty.

"Am I...a person?" Aziraphale asked. The sticky note one his head said David Bowie so Crowley nodded.

"Am I a famous person?" Aziraphale asked.

"Why on earth would you be a non-famous person? How would that say Bob who lives downstairs?"

"I dont know!" Aziraphale protested. "Let me ask my question!"

"Yes. Famous."

"Am I an actor?"

"Eh, sort of."

"What does sort of mean?"

"I can’t explain. That’s against the rules."

"Against the rules? Since when?"

The timer went off and Aziraphale huffed as he ripped the paper from his forehead. 

"David Bowie?" he said in exasperation, crumpling the post-it and tossing it on the table. "You’re impossible."

"Oh, and I was supposed to guess," Crowley picked up one of the discarded post-its. "Bertha Mason."

"My dear, it is not my fault that you have not read _Jane Eyre_."

"You’re fucking pretentious," Crowley said and he took another pull from the bottle. He crumpled his own post-it and threw it at Aziraphale’s head. He knew they were well on the way to drunk because it hit him between the eyes and they started laughing. When Aziraphale laughed, he turned a little pink. Crowley didn’t change colors when he was drunk. He just got a bit more gesture-y. Loose-limbed.

They migrated to the couch, a third bottle open between them and Crowley felt very loose-limbed indeed, one leg hooked over the arm of the couch, his arm tossed over the back as he gesticulated with the hand holding the wine bottle.

“Cats,” he said firmly. He turned and blinked at Aziraphale, expecting his response.

Aziraphale had switched to drinking out of a respectable wine glass which was sitting on the side table. His hands were folded primarily in his lap and he looked like an angel from a bloody Renaissance painting. Or was it Baroque? Crowley didn’t know. Something rubenesque with curls and curves and lots of light.

“What about cats?” Aziraphale asked, retrieving the glass and lifting it delicately to his lips to take a small sip. Crowley watched the movement and realized he was swallowing in time with Aziraphale.

“They’re superior to dogs,” he said too loudly. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with a playful grin. “That’s quite a statement. Should I alert the press?”

“No,” Crowley said, swaying forward. “Can’t tell _anyone_. It’s the beans.”

“Yes, the beans,” Aziraphale said. “The beans are good.”

Crowley held up his hand and started to count down the cat reasons. “And the whiskers and the feather toys. You can make them jump. I love cats.” He slumped back against the couch and set the wine aside. He was firmly drunk, dizzy down to the tips of his fingers. 

“How do we do this?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale asked.

The room was muzzy and gold. Crowley had turned on all the lights when he got home, frustrated as he stormed from room to room. The spaghetti playlist had long run out and Crowley forced himself to break the silence once more.

"The kissing?” Crowley answered. His legs flailed out as he struggled to sit up. “This was your idea."

Aziraphale set aside his glass unsteadily and said, "Right, yes. I think we should—"

Crowley pitched forward and kissed him. Their mouths smooshed together, noses pressing into each other’s cheeks. Every muscle in his body seized up. The wine wasn't doing anything to alleviate his nerves, not the way it was supposed to.

Aziraphale grasped his upper arms and gently pushed him off. “You doing the kissing didn’t work before. It’s not going to work now. You need to sit back and relax.”

Blinking miserably, Crowley tried to kiss him again, but Aziraphale held him back. Aziraphale cupped his cheek and met his eyes. "Just let me lead, alright?"

Crowley swallowed around his wine thick tongue as Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him. And maybe Aziraphale had been right. Maybe Crowley needed to sit back and not drive because…

Aziraphale pulled away. "How was that?"

"Better," Crowley croaked.

Aziraphale moved in and Crowley swayed closer. "Again?" Aziraphale asked.

"Isn't the point to get...desensitized?"

Sliding his hand into Crowley's hair, Aziraphale guided him back into another kiss. It was different this time and it took Crowley a moment to realize it was open-mouthed. Not just relaxed lips dragging over each other. No. Aziraphale's tongue flicked over his bottom lip and Crowley's stomach bottomed out like a car with terrible suspension hitting a pothole.

He’d never felt anything like it before while kissing someone.

Aziraphale’s hand cradled his head as his tongue explored Crowley’s mouth. They both tasted like wine and Crowley couldn’t breathe through the heat of it. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He always knew what to do with his hands. He always focused. Kissing was focus. It was— 

Aziraphale pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were glassy, face flushed. They were both so drunk. 

“That was better,” Aziraphale said with a supportive smile. “You’re relaxing.”

Crowley did not feel relaxed. Crowley felt steamrollered. He felt six feet deep. 

“Yeah,” he said, words spilling everywhere like a milk carton smashed on the floor. “Maybe I should try starting this time. Since that’s the scene.”

“Yes, the scene,” Aziraphale said. His hand was still curled gently by Crowley’s nape, mindlessly playing with the hair there and raising goosebumps in the process. “Are you comfortable?”

"M'good," Crowley said quietly. He tipped Aziraphale's chin back so he could capture his mouth in another kiss. This one felt soft. Softer than anything. He scooted closer and his arm snaked along the back of the couch as one of Aziraphale's hands fisted in the front of his henley. The other stayed gently in his hair.

He brushed his fingers up Aziraphale's cheek and Aziraphale made a gentle noise in his throat that ignited Crowley like so much kindling. Aziraphale smelled like his cologne which Crowley had grown accustomed to over their month of filming and being in close proximity. Sharp notes of juniper softened by Aziraphale's own comforting scent that Crowley couldn't quite describe. 

Thoughts of kissing women drifted through Crowley's mind, the soft sweet smells, the smoothness of their skin.

Aziraphale was soft too but his stubble scraped over Crowley's mouth and chin. He nipped gently at Crowley's bottom lip and then licked into his mouth, forcing every thought from Crowley's mind as he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale to press even closer.

His body was doing things, his mouth was doing things, but his brain was floating off in a tub, happily stimulated by what was happening, and Crowley couldn't think about anything except the sensation of Aziraphale’s mouth doing _things_ too.

Aziraphale's hands shifted on him, moving from his neck to his back to his hips. They were warm and oddly comforting. The kiss broke. They were both breathing hard, eyes locked. The hands gripped him tight and pulled.

He ended up in Aziraphale's lap. A marvelous idea because he didn't have to turn his head anymore as they both went back in for another kiss.

It was messier than before. Crowley sank his hands into Aziraphale's hair which was stupidly soft and he wondered why he'd never touched it. Dandelion fluff, he thought. Or clouds. Or candy floss but not sticky.

Their tongues slid together, hot and insistent as Aziraphale's hands stayed grounded on his lower back. They never moved, just there, supportive, safe, holding him as he and Aziraphale kissed and kissed and kissed.

Crowley was bloody drunk.

"Is it better?" he asked (slurred) when they broked for air, barely parting for a moment.

"Yes," Aziraphale said and tugged him into another kiss

It was bound to happen eventually. Natural order of things. Enough snogging and hip movements would get involved. When Crowley finally rocked down tentatively, without thought or intent, he felt it. Aziraphale, hard and insistent through his trousers.

He clutched the back of the sofa, ignoring his hammering heart, and broke the kiss.

"I’m sorry," Aziraphale said hurriedly.

Crowley couldn't bear to pull away. He was certain he'd fall apart if he didn't hold on to something.

"It's fine. Natural response to all the...kissing." Crowley couldn't think. His head was a jumble of kisses. Hands on his back.

He wasn't sure if Aziraphale could feel his own erection pressing against his jeans. He so rarely got hard when fooling around and yet here he was sloshed to high heaven and hard as nails while making out with his best friend. 

Oh fuck best friend. Were they best friends? Terror rose in Crowley. What if—what if—

Nope. That rising feeling was definitely nausea.

He toppled off Aziraphale and ran to the bathroom, lurching over the toilet as he coughed up an incomprehensible amount of alcohol.

"Are you alright?"

Of course Aziraphale came to check. Crowley didn't even get to have his moment of shame in private.

"I'm not puking because of the kissing," he insisted. He turned back to Aziraphale, the movement unsteady and he fell back on his heels. "That was good. This is the wine. Wine boak."

He threw up again. Aziraphale dropped down beside him and offered him a wet washcloth. "I know it’s not because of kissing, my dear."

"Good," Crowley said as he wiped the corners of his mouth. Everything felt thick and hazy. "Cuz I’d do it again. Any time."

Aziraphale rose to his feet and said, "Let me get you some water and painkillers for your bedside table. I think you should get to bed soon."

Crowley moaned. "Why’ren't you drunk?"

"I did not drink nearly as much as you," Aziraphale said gently before leaving the bathroom.

Crowley rested his head on his hands and knees and breathed. He didn't feel nearly as nauseated. Listening to Aziraphale move about his apartment, bits of reality began to worm their way into his mind.

He and Aziraphale had kissed. Properly snogged. He had liked it. More than any kiss in recent memory. 

He knew that meant something. He just needed to be sober to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, if you read my other fics, you might be reading Against Expectations, some stuff happened IRL that prevented me from finishing writing the epilogue so you probably won't see an update until early next week. Sorry for the delay there but hopefully, if you're reading both this fic and that one, this chapter made up for it ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the making of this chapter is the definition of "it takes a village"  
> Thank you to mortifyingideal for some help with figuring out the best way to make a reddit thread.  
> Thank you to Fyre for talking through some psychology and scot-picking.  
> Thank you to jb612 for kicking back and forth some ideas and plot points.  
> And finally, thank you to themoonmoth for a last minute beta and britpick and for helping me make this funnier.
> 
> The incredile wargoddess9 drew art of Aziraphale teasing Crowley with the spaghetti from last chapter and you can see it on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/wargoddess9/status/1366064643966345217?s=19)
> 
> CWs: a bit of internalized homophobia, use of a homophobic slur in an online thread but censored, people being shitty about sex stuff (idk how else to phrase this)

Crowley woke up to a headache and the smell of cooking bacon. He groaned and rolled onto his side, tucking the covers tight around his shoulders.

He was dead thirsty and fucking hungry now that he smelled food. Given the fact that he’d puked the night before, he was surprised that he wasn't sick to his stomach but the headache wasn’t unexpected.

He peeked open one eye and saw a glass of water and painkillers on the side table. Aziraphale.

Presumably, that was also the person cooking in his kitchen. Crowley tugged the blankets even tighter and grinned at the memory of how _irritated_ Aziraphale had been the night before, forcing him to brush his teeth and putting him to bed while Crowley insisted he stay so he didn't drink and drive. That got Aziraphale laughing and he promised he wasn't going anywhere. Crowley had been so fucking drunk. Aziraphale hadn’t even _drove_. Crowley didn’t think he even had a car.

Crowley heaved himself up onto one arm and drank his water. Then he took his painkillers. He was shirtless but he was fairly certain he'd torn that off on his own at some point in the night and Aziraphale hadn't undressed him. Fuck, Crowley hoped he hadn't undressed him. 

Crowley set aside the water and curled up into a seated position so he could put his head on his knees. Fuck. The kiss. The Very Good Kiss.

The Significant Hand Touch boner was looking more significant by the second.

And now he had a second Aziraphale-related boner to think about and he really needed food before he could tread further down that path because it was already getting thorny and winding and Crowley needed as much strength as he could muster to examine the part of his life he gamely tried _not_ to think about if he could help it.

Namely every bit of bad sex he’d had over the last three decades or so. 

Like any lad, when he’d turned 13, he'd wanked himself raw over whatever passed his fancy. He'd been a bit gangly and patchy about the face so no girls had been interested until Mrs. McTaggart had gotten him that TV spot at 17. He’d lost his virginity then, fairly easily and with no fuss to a girl named Katie who really was in it for the feather in her cap but Crowley had been in it for the proverbial punch in his v-card so it was all well and good on his end. 

He’d slept with loads of people after that. It was easy to pull whoever you liked when you were a local celebrity, and he was young, and somewhat fit, and it was _fun_ to have sex with people. To see who he could pull and how many. It was more fun when he was drunk or high so that was usually when he found the best prospects, marking off another notch on his bedpost, and getting a bit of a reputation.

Then he got older and things got difficult. He didn’t like drinking as much and getting high lost its lustre. Sex wasn’t as much fun sober. It was a messy hassle most of the time, and when he started having trouble staying hard, one-night-stands weren’t about to try to kiss and touch and spend all night on foreplay just to see him through. Dating was easier, but finding people to date wasn’t.

The irony of being kicked out of the industry because of some made up story about being a lech and a sexual predator was not lost on Crowley. Asking women out after that had been even more difficult. _Hey, I swear I’m an alright guy, but if we ever end up horizontal, there’s a lot you’ll have to put up with._

After a few years of being single and not minding too much except for the occasional boner over the randomest things, he’d accepted that maybe he just had a low libido. Or that maybe one day he’d meet someone who wouldn’t care that his dick was broken.

Now this. 

Maybe he wasn't broken. Maybe he'd just been barking up the wrong tree.

He heaved himself out of bed and fished around in his dresser for a shirt. Tugging it over his head, he heard Aziraphale swear in the other room.

"Oh, bother."

He wasn't sure if that counted as swearing. Aziraphale probably counted it, but he probably counted things like _fudge_ and _sugar_.

It was ridiculous and typical for what he knew of Aziraphale and also...maybe...cute?

Crowley was in no fit state to be thinking about that. He had a mission. Food. Shower. Then thinking time later.

Scrubbing at his hair which he was sure looked a mess, he shuffled out into the kitchen. Sure enough, Aziraphale was there scowling at the toaster and fiddling with the knobs. His bow tie was off somewhere being useless, as was his sweater vest. Instead he was wearing a t-shirt. _Crowley's_ t-shirt. One of his threadbare sleep shirts that Crowley had only brought because sometimes he liked to wear oversized shirts to bed when he got cold. It wasn't oversized on Aziraphale. It was just right, fitted over his arms and Crowley had that thought again that he looked welcoming and sturdy and _good_. The silhouette of a cobra on the front stretched over his broad chest and Crowley thought helplessly about how that chest had felt pressed against his the night before. Did he even remember it right? He’d been drunk. It couldn’t have been as warm, as nice, as soft as Crowley remembered.

 _Save it for thinking time_ , he told himself firmly.

"Need help?" Crowley asked, ignoring the way his heart beat all the way in his skull.

Aziraphale jumped to attention, looking quite like a child with his hand in the biscuit tin as he whirled away from the counter to face him. "Oh! You're awake!" 

Crowley stepped to his side and nudged him out of the way. He eyed the barely toasted bread that Aziraphale seemed to be frustrated with and turned the knob over to a higher setting before depressing the plunger and stifling a yawn.

"You stayed."

"You were quite drunk and it was very late so I availed myself of your couch," Aziraphale said as he busied himself scraping bacon out the frying pan and onto two plates.

"And my refrigerator, " Crowley said. "And my shirts apparently."

"Yes," Aziraphale said, glancing down at the logo on his chest. "Did you know you're very skinny?"

"It's been said."

The toast popped. Aziraphale shooed him out of the way to butter the bread

"I think you're a bit broader about the shoulders," Aziraphale said as he handed off a plate. Crowley took it gratefully.

"Eh?"

"It's just, if we are comparing body types, I believe you're a bit broader up top and then you get all willowy."

"Willowy?" Crowley repeated. Pouring himself some coffee from the pot, he looked down his body and frowned.

"My dear, it's not a bad thing," Aziraphale said, munching on his toast as he took a seat at the table. 

"Willowy makes me sound like some waif," Crowley insisted. He followed after Aziraphale and dropped down in a chair. "Like I need a fainting couch."

"Which one of us ended up with his head in the toilet last night?" Aziraphale asked with a challenging arch of his brow.

Crowley slapped his toast against his plate in indignation.

"It's perfectly alright to be delicate, Crowley," Aziraphale added.

Crowley fell silent. He was feeling pretty fucking delicate, fluttery and sweaty all at once. He needed to say something.

He glanced at Aziraphale. His hair was sticking up in tufts from sleeping on the couch, flattened on one side. 

“Aye, and you’re...delicate too,” he retorted lamely.

After a moment, Aziraphale said, "You know I’m just teasing--"

"No, I know. I was thinking. About last night…"

"Oh?"

"Do you think the scene will be better now?"

Aziraphale looked at his plate. "What do you think?"

"I, uh, I think so."

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. "I'm glad."

Crowley snacked on his bacon and considered that. He considered a few things; the swoop in his stomach at the sight of Aziraphale in his shirt; the low fizzing sensation in his spine whenever he thought about the kiss. Designated thinking time was beginning to look like a lost cause. Crowley felt like he was dying in his attempts to do _anything_ while hungover let alone control what his brain was doing.

"It's good you’re not called today. You look miserable."

"I feel bloody miserable," he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Sorry about puking yesterday.”

“It’s quite alright. I suppose I’ve joined the illustrious ranks of Olivia Coleman. Does it count if you didn’t puke on my shoes?”

Crowley gave him a withering glare. “I hope that’s what you tell her when you meet her. _Remember Anthony Crowley? I’ve also seen him puke. Want to be bosom buddies?_ ”

“I most certainly will,” Aziraphale said with a pretentious sniff as he gathered the plates. “Let me change and I’ll be out of your hair. I wanted to make sure you got some food in you before leaving, but now that I see you’re alive and well, I can go on my way.”

Crowley’s stomach lurched with nerves. He didn’t want Aziraphale to leave yet. He also needed Aziraphale gone so he could think. And not get distracted by the freckles on his forearms. Was noticing the freckles on another bloke’s forearms weird? Should he have thought of that as weird before?

Aziraphale stood and stretched and the pull of Crowley’s shirt over his shoulders looked good. What was with _good_? There had to be a better word than good.

 _Attractive_ floated to the top of the murky pool of his mind and Crowley kicked it down even as he watched the subtle movements of Aziraphale’s shoulder blades through the thin fabric of his shirt while he picked up his clothes. 

He used to think women looked good. He liked their collarbones, the curve of their cheeks, the way their hair fell about their shoulders.

He'd liked all that. He really had. He'd been so _certain_ of it.

He wasn't going to be able to stop thinking about this. Even as Aziraphale disappeared into the bathroom to change, Crowley’s mind turned over the reality that he had enjoyed kissing him. He’d liked how warm Aziraphale’s hands had been, how they’d felt on his back. He’d liked the way Aziraphale smelled, the way he kissed, the scrape of his sideburns beneath the pads of Crowley’s fingers. That wasn’t just enjoying a kiss. That was enjoying kissing a man and Crowley didn’t--Crowley needed to know more. Was it just Aziraphale? Was it men?

Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom looking far too put together given how Crowley felt like shit scraped across a shoe. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and tucked his phone into his pocket. "I really must dash, or I'll be late for my call time. I'll see you soon."

"Aye. Soon."

With that, Aziraphale was out the door, leaving Crowley to contemplate the fact that he was 47 and that he might like kissing men. Or maybe just Aziraphale.

He needed to make a list and it probably started with Google. 

* * *

Aziraphale pushed open the door to his flat, dropped his canvas bag on the ground, and bit back a groan loud enough he would likely have gotten a complaint from his neighbors if it had actually escaped his lips. Anthony Crowley.

Obtuse and sharp in equal parts. And absolutely, world-endingly beautiful. Aziraphale let the door slam shut and allowed himself a small, reasonably-sized groan.

He had a crush on a straight man. He had not had a crush on a straight man since he was twenty-two. Having crushes on straight men was something that inexperienced, fledging gay men did. Aziraphale Fell was not an inexperienced fledgling gay man. 

Dropping onto his very comfortable couch (no matter what Crowley said about the pattern it was _comfortable_ ) with a sigh, Aziraphale put his head in his hands. Crowley’s behavior certainly did not help. The mixed signals. That kiss yesterday that, if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would have mistaken for the real thing. The way Crowley had tried to grind down in his lap, the matching hardness Aziraphale had felt in his jeans.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and sat up straight. It didn’t matter. He was a professional. Crowley could look good in his tight costume trousers and tailored jackets. He could smell wonderfully clean like lavender soap and Aziraphale could have to tip his head up just-so to kiss him and it could make Aziraphale’s stomach do something life altering, but no matter. There were plenty of attractive men in the world. Aziraphale didn’t have to set his cap after a straight one. 

He might have an _inkling_ that there was something else going on there but--

No.

They were very good friends. Aziraphale liked that. He liked having someone to spend time with, to text, and complain to. What was he doing making jokes with Crowley about his appearance and reciprocating when Crowley flirted? It was all a very bad idea.

Forcing himself to get ready, he plugged in his phone and texted Anathema that he was running late and turned on the shower where he knew he was going to have to do something about the fact he was keyed up enough to run a marathon. He’d be absolutely useless at work if he didn’t do something.

Aziraphale got in the shower and ignored his erection at first. He needed to clear his mind before he touched himself. Thoughts of Crowley were still very fresh and he wasn’t about to indulge in any fantasies that would never come to pass.

He let the thoughts run through his mind’s eye like water; Crowley sleep-rumpled and grumbly in a soft black t-shirt. Crowley in his lap, moaning quietly against his mouth.

He swallowed hard and plucked his shampoo from the caddy, forcing himself to think about work. He had several solo scenes that day and at least one with Warlock. He needed to call his publicist soon. He’d been putting off doing anything on that front for the sake of the show, but it might be time to start.

Arousal still pooled hot at the base of his spine, but it was less pointed now. Relaxed and with only release in mind, Aziraphale took himself in hand. He could be fast and perfunctory about this.

Bracing himself with one hand on the wall, he let the water run hot down his back as he began to gently stroke himself. At first, it was just the sensation of his hand, tight and slick as the pleasure began to build in his gut. His mind was blank, but he'd spent so long thinking about kissing Crowley that his thoughts wandered there easily. The heat of him in his lap. The strong line of his back under Aziraphale’s hands as Aziraphale had tried to keep things under control. But what if he hadn't, what if he slid his hands down Crowley's thighs? They were thin and long and would fit beautifully in Aziraphale’s hands. What if he slipped his hands up under Crowley's shirt? Would he have made that noise again? That little needy one as he rocked his hips down into--

Eyes shooting open, Aziraphale pulled his hand away with a gasp. He would absolutely not do this. It would only lead to other liberties he would not dare take.

He turned the shower to a much cooler setting and resigned himself to a day of low simmering frustration.

Goosebumps rose on his skin under the harsh spray and he said quietly to himself, "I need to get this under control.”

He wasn't exactly sure what that looked like.

* * *

"Your horoscope is fucked today," Anathema said the minute he walked into his dressing room.

She shoved some hot cocoa into his hand and began scrolling through her tablet. "Something is wonky. Have you been eating more salads? Or did you do something impulsive?"

"Where's Newt?" Aziraphale asked as he set down his canvas bag and the hot cocoa. "I was certainly expecting him to be here today to lord his success over me."

"Success? What success?" Anathema asked. She glanced up and pushed her glasses up her nose. 

"The bets about the kiss," Aziraphale said. He began to shrug out of his out layers and hang them up on the clothes rack in the corner. "And how poorly it went."

Anathema looked at her tablet and then set it aside slowly. "What did you do?"

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa. "Nothing."

"The horoscope, Aziraphale. Don't bloody lie to me."

"Anathema, you are American you cannot say _bloody_. It sounds strange."

She wagged a finger at him. "Don't try to throw me off."

He needed to get to hair and make up. "Crowley and I met up last night and practiced."

"Practiced what?"

"Kissing."

Anathema looked like she wanted to throw something. "And?!"

"I really must get to make up. I’m running terribly behind."

"Why are you behind? You're never late.” Her eyes got huge behind her glasses. “Aziraphale. What happened?”

"Nothing happened. We got drunk and kissed until Crowley wasn't quite so nervous."

Anathema snatched her tablet from the counter. "Liar."

"Anathema…"

"Get to make up. But this isn't over."

* * *

Crowley stared at his computer screen until it blinked off. He wanted to talk to Aziraphale, but it was probably bad to talk to the person about whom you were having a crisis about said crisis. He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed the only number he knew by heart.

"Shadwell residence."

"Hey Trace, it's me," Crowley said, moving his laptop to the dining table and curling up onto the couch. 

"Oh, how are you, love? How’s Bristol?"

"Nice as Bristol can be," Crowley said. 

"You sound a bit bothered. Do you want to talk to Shadwell?"

"No. No. Definitely not...I was...I wanted to know how you and Shadwell ended up together?" Crowley asked with a wince. "Research. For a role."

Fucking thin excuse but it was the best he could do.

"Oh! That’s very sweet," Tracy said brightly. "I had just moved in next door and was helping him a bit around the house. You know. Being neighborly. I thought he was a good fellow. A bit traditional. But I always liked the strong Scottish type. And he was nice to me. Took care of me"

"Yeah?"

"Better than anyone ever had," Tracy said wistfully. "And now we take care of each other."

Crowley thought of the way Aziraphale’s hands had felt on his back. Warm. Safe. His stomach swooped and he closed his eyes.

“And what did--” Crowley leaned his cheek against the back of the couch and cleared his throat. “What did being attracted to him feel like?”

Tracy was silent for a long moment. “Do you know those once-in-a-blue moon hot summer days when no matter what you do--all the windows are open, you’re dressed in nearly nothing--you can’t get cool?”

Crowley made a small noise of assent. He remembered being 15 and spending all day lying on his bed that one, odd week in the summer. It’d been sweltering and he couldn’t bear it. He remembered rubbing ice over his neck, sitting in the garden.

“Like you’re hot all the way down to your insides. It’s like that. And when we touched, everything felt like sparks.”

Crowley didn’t like how much sense it made. He also didn’t like hearing it in the context of Shadwell and Tracy, but he didn’t know who else to ask.

Then Tracy laughed, breaking Crowley’s contemplation. 

“But you know Shadwell. Traditional. It took an awful lot of work convincing him to make a move!”

Crowley laughed awkwardly. He really didn’t want to know about any _moves_. “Aye, that’s...Shadwell.”

“But it worked out,” Tracy said and he could hear her smile. “Does that answer your question?”

"Aye. Makes sense. Thanks, Trace. Give ol’ Shaddy my love," Crowley said before hanging up. He stared at the black screen of his phone for a long moment.

He had one more thing to do on his list.

* * *

Masturbation for Crowley had always been a procedure. He needed to make the time, lower the lights and set the mood. 

He put on a nice acoustic playlist, lit a vanilla candle and laid out naked on the bed with a bottle of lube. 

He looked down at his soft penis and frowned. This was usually the first step. He squirted a little lube in his hand, ignoring the wet farting noise that came alongside the process. Nothing about this was sexy. It never was. A long time ago, he’d tried porn and that hadn’t worked out. It seemed like an awful lot of grunting and painful noises.

He closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around himself, gently playing with the head of his cock. It felt nice. Slick. He ran his other hand over his chest and played with his nipples which always made his stomach go hot.

He gasped at the first flicker of pleasure between his legs. It was time. Time to do what he laid down here to do.

Think about men. Sexy men. What was sexy about men? Dicks?

Crowley tried to think about dicks, but he’d only seen his own dick in detail, and the spark in his stomach died. 

Alright. He was going to do this. A bad idea. A very bad idea. Don't wank to your friends.

He brought the image of Aziraphale in his costume, the double breasted blue coat, to the forefront of his mind. His shoulders in that coat. Crowley's stomach dropped again. He tugged on his nipples and shivered.

Aziraphale’s throat. The creases in his neck when he smiled broadly. Crowley's heart jumped and skipped and he huffed out a sharp breath.

He massaged his cock and felt it grow hard under his palm.

Aziraphale’s hands. The broad knuckles and thick fingers. Crowley pushed two fingers into his mouth and sucked, moaning at the thought they might be Az-someone else’s before dragging the wet digits over his hardened nipples, teasing them back to stiff peaks.

"Fnucgh," Crowley gasped, pushing up into his own hand as his stomach burned with a heat he'd never felt.

Other images pushed their way into his mind. Men he'd worked with in the past. Their arms flexing as they worked through stunts. The sight of men at the gym, shirts stuck to their skin with sweat as they gasped with exertion.

"Fuckkkk." He fisted his cock and thought about another hand on him, manicured, thick fingered, freckled forearm, and he came all over his stomach.

He blinked up at the ceiling as his body rang out with pleasure. Dazed, with come drying on his belly, he let out a small, disbelieving laugh. 

He needed to talk to Aziraphale.


End file.
